WRIGHTv 


MARIE 


Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 

Form  L  I 

PS 

2353 

U5 

cop.l 


JONES' 

OK  STORE, 

6  W,  First  St. 
.*»«!».  c«  i. 


JAN  2  1 
26" 


MAR  2  3  1925 

oci        we 


UNDER   THE   TREES. 


WORKS   BY   MR.  MABIE. 

MY   STUDY   FIRE. 

MY   STUDY   FIRE,  Second  Series. 

UNDER  THE  TREES  AND  ELSE 
WHERE. 

SHORT   STUDIES   IN    LITERATURE. 

ESSAYS  IN  LITERARY  INTERPRE 
TATION. 


UNDER  THE  TREES 

AND  ELSEWHERE  *  BY 
HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE 


NEW  YORK  :  PUBLISHED  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
MDCCCXCVII 


Copyright,  1891  and  1893, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY. 
All  rights  reserved. 


2Sttiberst'tg  Dress: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


TO 

MY   FRIENDS   IN  ARDEN, 

C.  3B.  13. 

AND 

ah.  ®.  m. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGH 

I.  AN  APRIL  DAY, i 

^  II.  UNDER  THE  APPLE  BOUGHS,   ...  7 

III.  ALONG  THE  ROAD — 1 12 

IV.  ALONG  THE  ROAD — II., ....  17 
V.  THE  OPEN  FIELDS,      .....  23 

VI.  EARTH  AND  SKY,    .....  28 

VII.  THE  MYSTERY  OF  NIGHT,  ....  34 

VIII.  OFF  SHORE 40 

>>    IX.  A  MOUNTAIN  RIVULET,       ....  46 

X.  THE  EARLIEST  INSIGHTS,        ...  51 

i^  XI.  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS,     ...  58 

XII.  BESIDE  THE  RIVER,         ....  66 

XIII.  AT  THE  SPRING, 71 

XIV.  ON  THE  HEIGHTS, 76 

XV.  UNDER  COLLEGE  ELMS,       ....  82 

XVI.  A  SUMMER  MORNING,       ....  88 
vii 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.  A  SUMMER  NOON,         .  93 

XVIII  EVENTIDE, 98 

XIX.  THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE,  .        .     103 

XX.  A  MEMORY  OF  SUMMER,          .        .  „         107 

XXI.  IN  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN,  I. -XI.,  .     115 

XXII.  AN  UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND,  I.-VL,  ,        175 


PS 

2^ 
US 


UNDER  THE  TREES 

AND  ELSEWHERE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AN     APRIL     DAY. 

MY  study  has  been  a  dull  place  of  late  ;  even 
the  open  fire,  which  still  lingers  on  the  hearth,  has 
failed  to  exorcise  a  certain  gray  and  weary  spirit 
which  has  somehow  taken  possession  of  the  prem 
ises.  As  I  was  thinking  this  morning  about  the 
best  way  of  ejecting  this  unwelcome  inmate,  it  sud 
denly  occurred  to  me  that  for  some  time  past  my 
study  has  been  simply  a  workshop  ;  the  fire  has 
been  lighted  early  and  burned  late,  the  windows 
have  been  closed  to  keep  out  all  disturbing  sounds, 
and  the  pile  of  manuscript  on  the  table  has  steadily 
grown  higher  and  higher.  "  After  all,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "  it  is  I  that  ought  to  be  ejected."  Acting 
on  this  conclusion,  and  without  waiting  for  the  ser 
vice  of  process  of  formal  dislodgment,  I  have  let 
the  fire  go  out,  opened  the  windows,  locked  the 
door,  and  put  myself  into  the  hands  of  my  old 
friend,  Nature,  for  refreshment  and  society.  I  find 


2  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

that  I  have  come  a  little  prematurely,  although  my 
welcome  has  been  even  warmer  than  it  would  have 
been  later. 

"  This  is  what  I  like,"  my  old  friend  seemed  to 
say.  "  You  have  not  waited  until  I  have  set 
my  house  in  order  and  embellished  my  grounds. 
You  have  come  because  you  love  me  even  more 
than  my  surroundings.  I  have  a  good  many  friends 
who  know  me  only  from  May  to  October :  the  rest 
of  the  year  they  give  me  cold  glances  of  surprised 
recognition,  or  they  pass  me  by  without  so  much  as 
a  look.  Their  ardent  devotion  in  summer  fills  me 
with  a  deep  disdain  ;  their  admiration  for  great 
masses  of  color,  for  high,  striking  effects,  and  for 
the  general  lavishness  and  prodigality  of  my  pass 
ing  mood,  betrays  their  lack  of  discernment,  their 
defect  of  taste,  and  their  slight  acquaintance  with 
myself.  I  should  much  prefer  that  they  would  leave 
my  woods  and  fields  untrodden,  and  not  disturb  my 
mountain  solitudes  with  their  ignorant  and  vulgar 
raptures.  The  people  who  really  know  me  and 
love  me  seek  me  oftener  at  other  seasons,  when  I 
am  more  at  leisure,  and  can  bid  them  to  a  more  in 
timate  companionship.  They  come  to  understand 
my  finer  moods  and  deeper  secrets  of  beauty  ;  the 
elusive  loveliness  which  I  leave  behind  me  to  lure 
on  my  true  friends  through  the  late  autumn,  they 
find  and  follow  with  the  eye  and  heart  of  love  ;  the 
rare  and  splendid  aspects  in  which  I  often  discover 
my  presence  in  midwinter  they  enjoy  all  the  more 


AN  APRIL  DA  Y.  3 

because  I  have  withdrawn  myself  from  the  gaze  of 
the  crowd  ;  and  the  first  faint  touches  of  color  and 
soft  breathings  of  life,  which  announce  my  return  in 
the  early  spring,  they  greet  with  the  deep  joy  of 
true  lovers.  Those  only  who  discern  the  beauty  of 
branches  from  which  I  have  stripped  the  leaves  to 
uncover  their  exquisite  outline  and  symmetry,  who 
can  look  over  bare  fields  and  into  the  faded  copse 
and  find  there  the  elusive  beauty  which  hides  in 
soft  tones  and  low  colors,  are  my  true  friends  ;  all 
others  are  either  pretenders  or  distant  acquaint 
ances." 

I  was  not  at  all  surprised  to  hear  my  old  friend 
express  sentiments  so  utterly  at  variance  with 
those  held  by  many  people  who  lay  claim  to  her 
friendship  ;  in  fact,  they  are  sentiments  which  I 
find  every  year  becoming  more  and  more  my  own 
convictions.  In  every  gallery  of  paintings  you  will 
find  the  untrained  about  the  pictures  on  which  the 
artist  has  lavished  the  highest  colors  from  his 
palette  ;  those  whose  taste  for  art  has  had  direction 
and  culture  will  look  for  very  different  effects  in 
the  works  which  attract  them.  It  is  among  the 
rich  and  varied  low  colors  of  this  season,  in  wood 
and  field,  that  a  true  lover  of  nature  detects  some 
of  her  rarest  touches  of  loveliness  ;  the  low  western 
sun,  falling  athwart  the  bare  boughs  and  striking  a 
kind  of  subdued  bloom  into  the  brown  hill-tops 
and  across  the  furze  and  heather,  sometimes  reveals 
a  hidden  charm  in  the  landscape  which  one  seeks 


4  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

in  vain  when  skies  are  softer  and  the  green  roof 
has  been  stretched  over  the  woodland  ways.  In 
fact,  one  can  hardly  lay  claim  to  any  intimacy  with 
Nature  until  he  loves  her  best  when  she  discards 
her  royalty,  and,  like  Cinderella,  clad  only  in  the 
cast-off  garments  of  sunnier  days,  she  crouches  be 
fore  the  ashes  of  the  faded  year.  The  test  of 
friendship  is  its  fidelity  when  every  charm  of  for 
tune  and  environment  has  been  swept  away,  and 
the  bare,  undraped  character  alone  remains  ;  if  love 
still  holds  steadfast,  and  the  joy  of  companionship 
survives  in  such  an  hour,  the  fellowship  becomes  a 
beautiful  prophecy  of  immortality.  To  all  profes 
sions  of  love  Nature  applies  this  infallible  test  with 
a  kind  of  divine  impartiality.  With  the  first  note 
of  the  bluebird,  under  the  brief  flush  of  an  April 
sky,  her  alluring  invitation  goes  forth  to  the  world  ; 
day  by  day  she  deepens  the  blue  of  her  summer 
skies  and  fills  them  with  those  buoyant  clouds  that 
float  like  dreams  across  the  vision  of  the  waking 
day  ;  night  after  night  she  touches  the  stars  with  a 
softer  radiance,  and  breathes  upon  her  roses  so  that 
they  are  eager  for  the  dawn,  that  they  may  lay 
their  hearts  open  to  her  gaze  ;  the  forests  take  on 
more  and  more  the  lavish  mood  of  the  summer, 
until  they  have  buried  their  great  trunks  in  per 
petual  shade.  The  splendid  pageant  moves  on, 
gathering  its  votaries  as  it  passes  from  one  marvel 
ous  change  to  another  ;  and  yet  the  Mistress  of  the 
Revels  is  nowhere  visible.  The  crowds  press  from 


AN  APRIL   DA  Y.  5 

point  to  point,  peering  into  the  depths  of  the 
woods  and  watching  stealthily  where  the  torrent 
breaks  from  its  dungeon  in  the  hills,  and  leaps, 
mad  with  joy,  in  the  new-found  liberty  of  light  and 
motion  ;  but  not  a  flutter  of  her  garment  betrays  to 
the  keenest  eye  the  Presence  which  is  the  soul  of 
all  this  visible,  moving  scene. 

And  now  there  is  a  subtle  change  in  the  air- 
premonitions  of  death  begin  to  thrust  themselves 
in  the  midst  of  the  revelry ;  there  is  a  brief  hush,  a 
sudden  glow  of  splendor,  and,  lo  !  the  pageant  is 
seemingly  at  an  end.  The  crowd  linger  a  little, 
gather  a  few  faded  leaves,  and  depart  ;  a  few — 
a  very  few — wait.  Now  that  the  throngs  have  van 
ished  and  the  revelry  is  over,  they  are  conscious  of 
a  deep,  pervading  quietude  ;  these  are  days  when 
something  touches  them  with  a  sense  of  near  and 
sacred  fellowship  ;  Nature  has  cast  aside  her  gifts, 
and  given  herself.  For  there  is  a  something  behind 
the  glory  of  summer,  and  they  only  have  entered 
into  real  communion  with  Nature  who  have  learned 
to  separate  her  from  all  her  miracles  of  power  and 
beauty  ;  who  have  come  to  understand  that  she 
lives  apart  from  the  singing  of  birds,  the  blossom 
ing  of  flowers,  and  the  waving  of  branches  heavy 
with  leaves. 

The  Greeks  saw  some  things  clearly  without 
seeing  them  deeply  ;  they  interpreted  through  a 
beautiful  mythology  all  the  external  phenomena  of 
Nature.  The  people  of  the  farther  East,  on  the 


6  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

other  hand,  saw  more  obscurely,  but  far  more 
deeply  ;  they  looked  less  at  the  visible  things 
which  Nature  held  out  to  them,  and  more  into  the 
mysteries  of  her  hidden  processes,  her  silent  but 
universal  mutations  ;  the  subtle  vanishings  and  re- 
appearings  of  her  presence  ;  they  seemed  to  hear 
the  might}''  loom  on  which  the  seasons  are  woven, 
to  feel  through  some  primitive  but  forgotten  kin 
ship  the  throes  of  the  birth-hour,  the  vigils  of 
suffering,  and  the  agonies  of  death.  Was  there  not 
in  such  an  attitude  toward  Nature  a  hint  of  the  only 
real  fellowship  with  her  ? 


CHAPTER  II. 

UNDER   THE    APPLE    BOUGHS. 

FOR  weeks  past  I  have  been  conscious  of  some 
mystery  in  the  air ;  there  have  been  fleeting  signs 
of  secret  communication  between  earth  and  sky,  as 
if  the  hidden  powers  were  in  friendly  league  and 
some  great  concerted  movement  were  on  foot. 
There  have  been  soft  lights  playing  upon  the  ten 
der  grass  on  the  lawn,  and  caressing  those  deli 
cate  hues  through  which  each  individual  tree  and 
shrub  searches  for  its  summer  foliage  ;  the  morn 
ings  have  slipped  so  quietly  in  through  the  eastern 
gates,  and  the  afternoons  have  vanished  so  softly 
across  the  western  hills,  that  one  could  not  but  sus 
pect  a  plot  to  avert  attention  and  lull  watchful  eyes 
into  negligence  while  all  thyigs-were  made  ready 
for  the  moment  of  revelation^  At  times  a  subdued 
light  has  filled  the  broad  arch  of  heaven,  and,  later, 
a  fringe  of  rain  has  moved  gently  across  the  low 
hills  and  fallow  fields,  rippling  like  a  wave  from 
that  upper  sea  which  hangs  invisible  in  golden 
weather,  but  becomes  portentous  and  vast  as  the 
nether  seas  when  the  clouds  gather  and  the  celes 
tial  watercourses  are  unlocked. ^  One  day  I  thought 
I  saw  signs  of  a  falling  out  between  the  conspira- 

7 


8  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

tors,  and  I  set  myself  to  watch  for  some  disclosure 
which  might  escape  from  one  side  or  the  other  in 
the  frankness  of  anger. .-  The  earth  was  sullen  and 
overcast,  the  sky  dark  and  forbidding,  the  clouds 
rolled  together  and  grew  black,  and  the  shadows 
deepened  upon  the  grass.  At  last  there  was  a 
vivid  flash  of  lightning,  a  crash  of  thunder,  and  the 
sudden  roar  of  rain.  ,  "  Now,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  I 
shall  learn  what  all  this  secrecy  has  been  about." 
But  I  was  doomed  to  disappointment  ;  after  a  few 
minutes  of  angry  expostulation  the  sky  suddenly 
uncovered  itself,  the  clouds  piled  themselves 
against  the  horizon  and  disclosed  their  silver  lin 
ings,  and  over  the  whole  earth  there  spread  a  broad 
smile,  as  if  the  hypocritical  performance  had  been 
part  of  the  original  deception.  I  am  confident 
now  that  it  was,  for  that  brief  drenching  of  trees 
and  sward  was  almost  the  last  noticeable  prepara-, 
tion  before  the  curtain  rose.  The  next  dayjthere 
was  a  deep,  unbroken  quiet  across  our  piece  of 
world,  as  if  a  fragment  of  eternity  had  been  quietly 
slipped  into  the  place  of  one  of  our  brief,  noisy 
days.  The  trees  stood  motionless,  as  if  awaiting 
some  signal,  and  I  listened  in  vain  for  that  inarticu 
late  and  half-heard  murmur  of  coming  life  which, 
day  and  night,  had  filled  my  thoughts  these  past 
weeks,  and  set  the  march  of  the  hours  to  a  sublime 
rhythm. 

The  next  morning  a  faint  perfume  stole  into  my 
/  room.     I  rose  hastily,  ran  to  the  window,  and  lo  ! 


UNDER  THE  APPLE  BOUGHS.       9 

the  secret  was  out :  the  apple  trees  were  in  bloom  ! 
.Three  days  later,  and  the  miracle  so  long  in  prepa 
ration  was  accomplished  ;  the  slowly  rising  tide 
of  life  had  broken  into  a  foam  of  blossoms  and 
buried  the  world  in  a  billowy  sea.  There  will  come 
days  of  greater  splendor  than  this,  days  of  deeper 
foliage,  of  waving  grain  and  ripening  fruit,  but  no 
later  day  will  eclipse  this  vision  of  paradise  which 
lies  outspread  from  my  window  ;  life  touches  to-day 
the  zenith  of  its  earliest  and  freshest  bloom  ;  to 
morrow  the  blossoms  will  begin  to  sift  down  from 
the  snowy  branches,  and  the  great  movement  of 
summer  will  advance  again  ;  but  for  one  brief  day 
the  year  pauses  and  waits,  reluctant  to  break  the 
spell  of  this  perfect  hour,  to  mar  by  the  stir  of  a 
single  leaf  the  stainless  loveliness  of  this  revelation 
of  nature's  unwasted  youth. 

\/  I  do  not  care  to  look  through  these  great  masses 
of  bloom  ;  it  is  enough  simply  to  live  in  an  hour 
which  brings  such  an  overflow  of  beauty  from  the 
ancient  fountains  ;  but  nature  herself  lures  one  to 
deeper  thoughts,  and,  through  the  vision  which 
spreads  like  a  mirage  over  the  landscape,  hints  at 
some  hidden  loveliness  at  the  root  of  this  riotous 
blossoming,  §ome  diviner  vision  for  the  eye  of  the 
spirit  alone.  V"  Look,"  she  seems  to  say,  as  I  stand 
and  gaze  with  unappeased  hunger  of  soul,  "  this 
is  my  holiday.  In  the  coming  weeks  I  have  a  whole  i 
race  to  feed,  and  over  the  length  of  the  world  men 
are  imploring  my  help.  VThey  de~theiE-4iUle-9hare 


10  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

of  work,  and  while  they  wait,  waking  and  sleeping, 

^_ anxiously  watching  winds  and    clouds,   I  vitalize 

their  toil  and  turn  all  my  forces  to  their  bidding. 

IThe  labor  of  the  year  is  at  hand  and  on  its  thresh 
old  I  take  this  holiday.  To-day  I  give  you  a 
glimpse  of  paradise  ;  a  garden  in  which  all  manner 
of  loveliness  blooms  simply  from  the  overflow  of 
life,  without  thought,  or  care,  or  toil.  This  was 
my  life  before  men  came  with  their  cries  of  hunger 
and  nakedness  ;  this  shall  be  my  life  again  when 
they  have  passed  beyond.  .This  which  lies  before 
you  like  a  dream  is  a  glimpse  of  life  as  it  is  in  me, 
and  shall  be  in  you  ;  immortal,  inexhaustible  full 
ness  of  power  and  beauty,  overflowing  in  frolic 
loveliness.  This  shall  be  to  you  a  day  out  of 
eternity,  a  moment  out  of  the  immortal  youth  to 
which  all  true  life  comes  at  last,  and  in  which  it 
abides." 

I  cannot  say  that  I  heard  these  words,  and  yet 
they  were  as  real  tome  as  if  they  had  been  audible  ; 
in  all  fellowship  with  Nature  silence  is  deeper  and 
(taore  real  than  speech.  »As  I  stood  meditating  on 
^these  deep  things  that  lie  at  the  bottom  of  this  sea 
/of  bloom,  I  understood  why  men  in  all  ages  have  ' 
connected  the  flowering  of  the  apple  with  their 
dreams  of  paradise  ;  I  saw  at  a  glance  the  immor 
tal  symbolism  of  these  blossoming  fields  and  hill 
sides.  I  did  not  need  to  lift  my  eyes  to  look  upon 
that  gkrdenW  Hesperides,  lying  like  a  dream  of 
heaven  tinder  the  golden  western  skies,  whence 


UNDER  THE  APPLE  BOUGHS,      II 

Heracles  brought  back  the  fruit  of  Juno  ;  I  asked 
no  aid  of  Milton's  imagination  to  see  the  mighty 
hero  in 

.  .  .  the  gardens  fair 

Of  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree  ; 

and  as  I  gazed,  the  vision  of  that  other  and  nobler 
hero  came  before  me,  whose  purity  is  more  to  us 
than  his  prowess,  and  who  waits  in  Avilion,  the 
"  Isle  of  Apples,"  for  the  call  that  shall  summon 
him  back  from  Paradise. 

I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  even  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound. 


CHAPTER   III. 

ALONG      THE     ROAD. 

* 

I. 

SINCE  I  turned  the  key  on  my  study  I  have 
almost  forgotten  the  familiar  titles  on  which  my 
eye  rested  whenever  I  took  a  survey  of  my  book 
shelves.  Those  friends  stanch  and  true,  with  whom 
I  have  held  such  royal  fellowship  when  skies  were 
chill  and  winds  were  cold,  will  not  forget  me,  nor 
shall  I  become  unfaithful  to  them.  I  have  gone 
abroad  that  I  may  return  later  with  renewed  zest  and 
deeper  insight  to  my  old  companionships.  Books 
and  nature  are  never  inimical  ;  they  mutually  speak 
for  and  interpret  each  other  ;  and  only  he  whoj 
stands  where  their  double  light  falls  sees  things  in; 
true  perspective  and  in  right  relations. 

The  road  along  whose  winding  course  I  have 
been  making  a  delightful  pilgrimage  to-day  hasi 
the  double  charm  of  natural  beauty  and  of  hu 
man  association  ;  it  is  old,  as  age  is  reckoned  in- 
this  new  world  ;  it  has  grown  hard  under  the 
tread  of  sleeping  generations,  and  the  great 
figures  of  history  have  passed  over  it  in  their  jour 
neys  between  the  two  great  cities  which  mark  its 


ALONG   THE  ROAD— I.  13 

limits.  In  the  earlier  days  it  was  the  king's  high 
way,  and  along  its  up-hill  and  down-dale  course  the 
battalions  of  royal  troops  marched  and  counter 
marched  to  the  call  of  bugles  that  have  gone  silent 
these  hundred  years  and  more.  It  is  a  road  of 
varied  fortunes,  like  many  of  those  who  have  passed 
over  it  ;  it  is  sometimes  rich  in  all  manner  of  price 
less  possessions,  and  again  it  is  barren,  poverty- 
stricken  and  desolate.  It  climbs  long  hills,  some 
times  in  a  roundabout,  hesitating,  half-hearted  way, 
and  sometimes  with  an  abrupt  and  breathless 
ascent ;  at  the  summit  it  seems  to  pause  a  moment 
as  if  to  invite  the  traveler  to  survey  the  splendid 
domain  which  it  commands.  On  one  side,  in  such 
a  restful  moment,  one  sees  the  wide  circle  of  waters, 
stretching  far  off  to  a  horizon  which  rests  on  clus 
ters  of  islands  and  marks  the  limits  of  the  world  ; 
in  the  foreground,  and  sweeping  around  the  other 
points  of  the  compass,  a  landscape  rich  in  foliage, 
full  of  gentle  undulations,  and  dotted  here  and 
there  with  fallow  fields,  spreads  itself  like  another 
sea  that  has  been  hushed  into  sudden  immutability, 
and  then  sown,  every  wave  and  swell  of  it,  with  the 
seeds  of  exhaustless  fertility. 

From  such  points  of  eminence  as  these  the  road 
sometimes  runs  with  hurried  descent,  as  if  longing 
for  solitude,  into  the  heart  of  the  woodlands,  and 
there  winds  slowly  and  solemnly  under  the  over 
shadowing  branches  ;  there  are  no  fences  here,  and 
the  sharp  lines  of  separation  between  road-bed  and 


14  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

forest  were  long  ago  erased  in  that  quiet  usurpa 
tion  of  man's  work,  which  Nature  never  fails  to 
make  the  moment  she  is  left  to  herself.  The 
ancient  spell  of  the  woods  is  unbroken  in  this  leafy 
solitude,  and  no  traveler  in  whom  imagination  sur 
vives  can  hope,  to  escape  it.  The  deep  breathings 
of  primeval  life  are  almost  audible,  and  one  feels  in 
a  quick  and  subtle  perception  the  long  past  which 
unites  him  with  the  earliest  generations  and  the 
most  remote  ages. 

Passing  out  from  this  brief  worship  under  the 
arches  of  the  most  venerable  roof  in  Christendom, 
the  road  takes  on  a  frolic  mood  and  courts  the 
open  meadows  and  the  flooding  sunshine  ;  green, 
sweet,  and  strewn  with  wild  flowers,  the  open  fields 
call  one  from  either  side,  and  arrest  one's  feet  at 
every  turn  with  solicitations  to  freedom  and  joyous- 
ness.  The  white  clouds  in  the  blue  sky  and  the  long 
sweep  of  these  radiant  meadows  conspire  together 
to  persuade  one  that  time  has  strayed  back  to  its 
happy  childhood  again,  and  that  nothing  remains  of 
the  old  activities  but  play  in  these  immortal  fields. 
Here  the  carpet  is  spread  over  which  one  runs  with 
childish  heedlessness,  courting  the  disaster  which 
brings  him  back  to  the  breast  of  the  old  mother, 
and  makes  him  feel  once  more  the  warmth  and 
sweetness  out  of  which  all  strength  and  beauty 
spring.  A  little  brook  crosses  the  road  under  a 
rattling  bridge,  and  wanders  on  across  the  fields, 
limpid  and  rippling,  running  its  little  strain  of  music 


ALONG    THE  ROAD— I.  15 

through  the  silence  of  the  meadows.  Its  voice  is 
the  only  sound  which  breaks  the  stillness,  and  that 
itself  seems  part  of  the  solitude.  By  day  the  clouds 
marshal  their  shadows  on  it,  and  when  night  comes 
the  heavens  sow  it  with  stars,  until  it  flows  like  a 
dissolving  belt  of  sky  through  the'  fragrant  dark 
ness.  Sometimes,  as  I  have  come  this  way  after 
nightfall,  I  have  heard  its  call  across  the  invisible 
fields,  and  in  the  sound  I  have  heard  I  know  not 
what  of  deep  and  joyous  mystery  ;  the  long-past 
and  the  far-off  future  whispering  together,  under 
cover  of  the  night,  of  those  things  which  the  stars 
remember  from  their  youth,  and  to  which  they  look 
forward  in  some  remote  cycle  of  their  shining. 

Past  old  and  well-worked  farms,  into  which  the 
toil  and  thrift  of  generations  have  gone,  the  old 
road  leads  me,  and  brings  my  thoughts  back  from 
elemental  forces  and  primeval  ages  to  these  later 
centuries  in  which  human  life  has  overlaid  these 
hills  and  vales  with  rich  memories.  Wherever  man 
goes  Nature  makes  room  for  him,  as  if  prepared  for 
his  coming,  and  ready  to  put  her  mighty  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  of  his  prosperity.  The  old  fences, 
often  decayed  and  fallen,  are  not  spurned  ;  the 
movement  of  universal  life  does  not  flow  past  them 
and  leave  them  to  rot  in  their  ugliness ;  year  by  year 
time  stains  them  into  harmony  with  the  rocks,  arid 
every  summer  a  wave  out  of  the  great  sea  of  life 
flings  itself  over  them,  and  leaves  behind  some 
slight  and  seemly  garniture  of  moss  and  vine.  The 


10  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

old  farmhouses  have  grown  into  the  landscape,  and 
the  hurrying  road  widens  its  course,  and  sometimes 
makes  a  long  detour,  that  it  may  unite  these  outly 
ing  folk  with  the  great  world.  There  stands  the 
old  school-house,  sacred  to  every  traveler  who  has 
learned  that  childhood  is  both  a  memory  and  a 
prophecy  of  heaven.  One  pauses  here,  and  hears, 
in  the  unbroken  stillness,  the  rush  of  feet  that  have 
never  grown  weary  with  travel,  and  the  clamor  of 
voices  through  which  immortal  youth  still  shouts  to 
the  kindred  hills  and  skies.  Into  those  windows 
nature  throws  all  manner  of  invitations,  and 
through  them  she  gets  only  glances  of  recognition 
and  longing.  There  are  the  fields,  the  woods,  and 
the  hills  in  one  perpetual  rivalry  of  charm  ;  the 
bird  sings  in  the  bough  over  the  window,  and  on 
still  afternoons  the  brook  calls  and  calls  again. 
Here  one  feels  anew  the  eternal  friendship  between 
childhood  and  Nature,  and  remembers  that  they  only 
can  abide  in  that  fellowship  who  carry  into  riper 
years  the  self-forgetfulness,  the  sweet  unconscious 
ness,  the  open  mind  and  heart  of  a  child. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ALONG     T  HE     ROAD. 
II. 

I  HAVE  found  that  walking  stimulates  observa 
tion  and  opens  one's  eyes  to  movements  and  ap 
pearances  in  earth  and  sky,  which  ordinarily  escape 
attention.  The  constant  change  of  landscape  which 
attends  even  the  slow  progress  of  a  loitering  gait 
puts  one  on  the  alert  for  discoveries  of  all  kinds, 
and  prompts  one  to  suspect  every  leafy  covert  and 
to  peer  into  every  wooded  recess  with  the  expecta 
tion  of  surprising  Nature  as  Actaeon  surprised  Diana 
— in  the  moment  of  uncovered  loveliness.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  one  lounges  by  the  hour  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  or  sits,  book  in  hand,  under 
the  knotted  and  familiar  apple  tree,  on  a  summer 
afternoon,  the  faculty  of  observation  is  lulled  into 
a  dreamless  sleep  ;  one  ceases  to  be  far  enough 
away  from  Nature  to  observe  her  ;  one  becomes 
part  of  the  great,  silent  movements  in  the  midst  of 
which  he  sits,  mute  and  motionless,  while  the  hours 
slip  by  with  the  peace  of  eternity  already  upon 
them. 

When  I  reached  the  end  of  my  walk,  and  paused 
17 


1 8  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

for  a  moment  before  retracing  my  steps,  I  was  con 
scious  of  the  inexhaustible  richness  of  the  world 
through  which  I  had  come  ;  a  thousand  voices  had 
spoken  to  me,  and  a  thousand  sights  of  wonder 
moved  before  me  ;  I  was  awake  to  the  universe 
which  most  of  us  see  only  in  broken  and  unintelli 
gent  dreams.  Through  all  this  realm  of  truth  and 
poetry  men  have  passed  and  repassed  these  many 
years,  I  said  to  myself ;  and  I  began  to  wonder 
how  many  of  those  now  long  asleep  really  saw  or 
heard  this  great  glad  world  of  sun  and  summer  ! 
I  began  slowly  to  retrace  my  steps,  and  as  I  reached 
the  summit  of  the  hill  and  looked  beyond  I  saw 
the  cattle  standing  knee-deep  in  the  brook  that 
loiters  across  the  fields,  and  I  heard  the  faint 
bleating  of  sheep  borne  from  a  distant  pasturage. 

These  familiar  sights  and  sounds  touched  me 
with  a  sudden  pathos;  there  is  nothing  in  human 
associations  so  venerable,  so  familiar,  as  the  lowing 
of  the  home-coming  kine  and  the  bleating  of  the 
flocks.  They  carry  one  back  to  the  first  homes  and 
the  most  ancient  families.  Older  than  history, 
more  ancient  than  civilization,  are  these  familiar 
tones  which  unite  the  low-lying  meadows  and  the 
upland  pastures  with  the  fire  on  the  hearth-stone 
and  the  nightly  care  of  the  fold.  When  the 
shadows  deepen  over  the  country-side,  the  oldest 
memories  are  revived  and  the  oldest  habits  recalled 
by  the  scenes  about  the  farm-house.  The  same 
offices  fall  to  the  husbandman,  the  same  sights  re- 


ALONG    THE  ROAD— II.  19 

veal  themselves  to  the  housewife,  the  same  sounds, 
mellow  with  the  resonance  of  uncounted  centuries, 
greet  the  ears  of  the  children  as  in  the  most  primi 
tive  ages. 

The  highway  itself  stands  as  a  memorial  of  the 
most  venerable  customs  and  the  most  ancient 
races.  As  I  lift  my  eyes  from  its  beaten  road-bed, 
and  look  out  upon  it  through  the  imagination,  it 
escapes  all  later  boundaries  and  runs  back  through 
history  to  the  very  dawn  of  civilization  ;  it  marks 
the  earliest  contact  of  men  with  a  world  which  was 
wrapped  in  mystery.  The  hour  that  saw  a  second 
home  built  by  human  hands  heard  the  first  footfall 
on  the  first  highway.  That  narrow  foot-path  led 
to  civilization,  and  has  broadened  into  the  highway 
because  human  fellowships  and  needs  have  multi 
plied  and  directed  the  countless  feet  that  have 
beaten  it  into  permanency.  Every  new  highway 
has  been  a  new  bond  between  Nature  and  men,  a 
new  evidence  of  that  indissoluble  fellowship  into 
which  they  are  forever  united. 

I  have  sometimes  tried  to  recall  in  imagination 
the  world  of  Nature  before  a  human  voice  had 
broken  the  silence  or  a  human  foot  left  its  impress 
on  the  soil  ;  but  when  I  remember  that  what  I  see 
in  this  sweep  of  force  and  beauty  is  largely  what  I 
myself  put  into  the  vision,  that  Nature  without  the 
human  ear  is  soundless,  and  without  the  human 
eye  colorless,  I  understand  that  what  lies  spread 
before  me  never  was  until  a  human  soul  confronted 


20  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

it  and  became  its  interpreter.  This  radiant  world 
upon  which  I  look  was  without  form  and  void  until 
the  earliest  man  brought  to  the  vision  of  it  that  cre 
ative  power  within  himself  which  touched  it  with 
form  and  color  and  relations  not  its  own.  Nature 
is  as  incomplete  and  helpless  without  man  as  man 
would  be  without  Nature.  He  brought  her  varied 
and  inexhaustible  beauty,  and  clothed  her  with  a 
garment  woven  on  we  know  not  what  looms  of  divine 
energy  ;  and  she  fed,  sheltered,  and  strengthened 
him  for  the  life  which  lay  before  him.  Together 
they  have  wrought  from  the  first  hour,  and  civiliza 
tion,  with  all  the  circle  of  its  arts,  is  their  joint 
handiwork. 

In  the  atmosphere  of  our  rich  modern  fellowship 
with  Nature,  the  unwritten  poetry  to  which  every 
open  heart  falls  heir,  we  forget  our  earliest  depend 
ence  on  the  great  mother  and  the  lessons  she 
taught  when  men  gathered  about  her  knee  in  the 
childhood  of  the  world.  Not  a  spade  turned  the 
soil,  not  an  ax  felled  a  tree,  not  a  path  was  made 
through  the  forest,  that  did  not  leave,  in  the  man 
whose  arm  put  forth  the  toil,  some  moral  quality. 
In  the  obstacles  which  she  placed  in  their  pathway, 
in  the  difficulties  with  which  she  surrounded  theii 
life,  the  wise  mother  taught  her  children  all  the 
lessons  which  were  to  make  them  great.  It  was  no 
easy  familiarity  which  she  offered  them,  no  careless 
bestowal  of  bounty  upon  dependents  ;  she  met  them 
as  men,  and  offered  them  a  perpetual  alliance  upon 


ALONG    THE  ROAD— II.  21 

such  terms  as  great  and  equal  sovereigns  proffer 
and  accept.  She  gave  much,  but  she  asked  even 
more  than  she  offered,  and  in  the  first  moment  of 
intercourse  she  struck  in  men  that  lofty  note  of 
sovereignty  which  has  never  ceased  to  thrill  the  race 
with  mysterious  tones  of  power  and  prophecy. 
Men  have  stood  erect  and  fearless  in  the  presence 
of  the  most  awful  revelations  of  the  forces  of 
Nature,  affirming  by  their  very  attitude  a  supremacy 
of  spirit  which  no  preponderance  of  power  can 
overshadow.  Face  to  face  through  all  his  history 
man  has  stood  with  Nature,  and  to  each  generation 
she  has  opened  some  new  page  of  her  inexhaustible 
story.  Beginning  in  the  hardest  toil  for  the  most 
material  rewards,  this  fellowship  has  steadily  added 
one  province  of  knowledge  and  intimacy  after 
another,  until  it  has  become  inclusive  of  the  most 
delicate  and  hidden  recesses  of  character  as  well  as 
those  which  are  obvious  and  primary.  In  response 
to  spirits  which  have  continually  come  into  a  closer 
contact  with  her  life,  Nature  has  added  to  her  gifts 
of  food  and  wine,  poetry  and  art,  far-reaching 
sciences,  occult  wisdoms  and  skills;  she  has  invited 
the  greatest  to  become  her  ministers,  and  has 
rewarded  their  unselfish  service  by  sharing  with 
them  the  mighty  forces  that  sleep  and  awake  at  her 
bidding  ;  one  after  another  the  poets  of  truest  gift 
have  forsaken  the  beaten  paths  of  cities  and  men, 
and  found  along  her  untrodden  ways  the  vision  that 
never  fades  ;  her  voice,  now  that  men  begin  to 


22  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

understand  it  again  as  their  forefathers  understood 
it,  is  a  voice  of  worship.  So,  from  their  first  work 
for  food  and  shelter,  men  have  steadily  won  from 
Nature  gifts  of  insight  and  knowledge  and  prophecy, 
until  now  the  mightiest  secrets  are  whispered  by  the 
trees  to  him  who  listens,  and  the  winds  sometimes 
take  up  the  burden  of  prophecy  and  sing  of  a 
fellowship  in  which  all  truth  shall  be  a  common 
possession. 

As  I  walk  along  the  old  highway,  the  deepening 
shadows  touch  the  familiar  landscape  with  mystery  ; 
one  landmark  after  another  vanishes  until  the 
lights  in  the  scattered  farm-houses  gleam  like  re 
flected  constellations.  A  deep  silence  fills  the 
great  heavens  and  broods  over  the  wide  earth;  all 
things  have  become  dim  and  strange  ;  and  yet  I 
feel  no  loneliness  in  the  midst  of  this  star-lit  soli 
tude.  The  heavens  shining  over  me,  and  the  scat 
tered  household  fires  declare  to  me  that  fellowship 
of  light  in  which  Nature  holds  out  her  hand  to  man 
and  leads  him,  step  by  step,  to  the  unspeakable 
splendors  of  her  central  sun. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE      OPEN      FIELDS. 

ONE  of  the  sights  upon  which  my  eyes  restoften- 
est  and  with  deepest  content  is  a  broad  sweep  of 
meadow  slowly  climbing  the  western  sky  until  it 
pauses  at  the  edge  of  a  noble  piece  of  woodland. 
It  is  a  playground  of  wind  and  flowers  and  waving 
grasses.  There  are,  indeed,  days  when  it  lies  cold 
and  sad  under  inhospitable  skies,  but  for  the  most 
part  the  heavens  are  in  league  with  cloud  and  sun  to 
protect  its  charm  against  all  comers.  When  the 
turf  is  fresh,  all  the  promise  of  summer  is  in  its 
tender  green  ;  a  little  later,  and  it  is  sown  thick 
with  daisies  and  buttercups  ;  and  as  the  breeze 
plays  upon  it  these  frolicsome  flowers,  which  have 
known  no  human  tending,  seem  to  chase  each  other 
in  endless  races  over  the  whole  expanse.  I  have 
seen  them  run  breathlessly  up  the  long  slope, 
and  then  suddenly  turn  and  rush  pell-mell  down 
again.  If  the  wind  had  only  stopped  for  a  moment 
its  endless  gossip  with  the  leaves,  I  am  sure  I 
should  have  heard  the  gleeful  shouts,  the  sportive 
cries,  of  these  vagrant  flowers  whose  spell  is  rewoven 
over  every  generation  of  children,  and  whose  un- 

23 


24  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

studied  beauty  and  joy  recall,  with  every  summer, 
some  of  the  clews  which  most  of  us  have  lost  in  our 
journey  through  life.  Even  as  I  write,  I  see  the 
white  and  yellow  heads  tossing  to  and  fro  in  a  mood 
of  free  and  buoyant  being,  which  has  for  me,  face 
to  face  with  the  problems  of  living,  an  unspeakable 
pathos. 

What  a  depth  of  tender  color  fills  the  arch  of 
heaven  as  it  bends  over  this  playground  of  the 
blooming  and  beauty-laden  forces  of  nature  !  The 
great  summer  clouds,  shaping  their  courses  to  in 
visible  harbors  across  the  trackless  aerial  sea,  love 
to  drop  anchor  here  and  slowly  trail  their  mighty 
shadows,  vainly  groping  for  something  that  shall 
make  them  fast.  The  winds,  that  have  come  roar 
ing  through  the  woodlands,  subdue  their  harsh 
voices  and  linger  long  in  their  journey  across  this 
sunny  expanse.  It  is  true,  they  sing  no  lullabies  as 
in  the  hollow  under  the  hill  where  they  themselves 
often  fall  asleep,  but  the  music  to  which  they  move 
has  a  magical  cadence  of  joy  in  it,  and  sets  our 
thought  to  the  dancing  mood  of  the  flowers. 

Sometimes,  on  quiet  afternoons,  when  the  great 
world  of  work  has  somehow  seemed  to  drop  its 
burdens  into  space,  and  carries  nothing  but  rest 
and  quietude  along  its  journey  under  the  summer 
sky,  I  have  seen  a  pageant  in  the  open  fields  that 
has  made  me  doubt  whether  a  dream  had  not  taken 
me  unawares.  I  have  seen  the  first  sweet  flowers 
of  spring  rise  softly  out  of  the  grass  where  they 


THE   OPEN  FIELDS.  25 

had  been  hiding,  and  call  gently  to  each  other,  as 
if  afraid  that  a  single  loud  word  would  dissolve  the 
charm  of  sun  and  warm  breeze  for  which  they  had 
waited  so  long.  After  their  dreamless  sleep  of 
months,  these  beautiful  children  of  Mother  Earth 
seemed  almost  afraid  to  break  the  stillness  from 
which  they  had  come,  and  strayed  about  noiselessly, 
with  subdued  and  lovely  mien,  exhaling  a  perfume 
as  delicate  as  themselves.  Then,  with  a  rush  and 
shout,  the  summer  flowers  suddenly  burst  upon  the 
scene,  overflowing  with  life  and  merriment ;  in  law 
less  troops  they  ran  hither  and  thither,  flinging 
echoes  of  their  laughter  over  the  whole  country-side, 
and  soon  overshadowing  entirely  their  older  and 
more  sensitive  fellows  ;  these,  indeed,  soon  vanish 
altogether,  as  if  lonely  and  out  of  place  under  the 
broad  glare  and  high  colors  of  midsummer.  And 
now  for  weeks  together  the  game  went  on  without 
pause  or  break  ;  the  revelry  grew  fast  and  furious, 
until  one  suspected  that  some  night  the  Bacchic 
throng  had  passed  that  way  and  left  their  mood  of 
wild  and  lawless  frolic  behind. 

At  last  a  softer  aspect  spread  itself  over  the 
glowing  sky  and  earth.  The  nights  grew  vocal 
with  the  invisible  chorus  of  insect  life  ;  there  was 
a  mellow  splendor  in  the  moonlight,  which  touched 
the  distant  hills  and  wide-spreading  waters  with  a 
pathetic  prophecy  of  change.  And  now,  ripe, 
serene,  and  rich  with  the  accumulated  beauty  of 
the  summer,  the  autumn  flowers  appeared.  Their 
movement  was  like  the  stately  dances  of  olden 


26  UNDER    THE    TREES, 

times  ;  youth  and  its  overflow  were  gone  forever  ; 
but  in  the  hour  of  maturity  there  remained  a  noble 
beauty,  which  touched  all  imaginations  and  com 
municated  to  all  visible  things  a  splendor  of  which 
the  most  radiant  hours  of  early  summer  had  been 
only  faintly  prophetic.  In  the  calm  of  these  golden 
days  the  autumn  flowers  reigned  with  a  more  than 
regal  state,  and  when  the  first  cold  breath  of  winter 
touched  them,  they  fell  from  their  great  estate 
silently  and  royally  as  if  their  fate  were  matched  to 
their  rank.  And  now  the  fields  were  bare  once 
more. 

From  such  a  dream  as  this  I  often  awake  joy 
fully  to  find  the  drama  still  in  its  first  act,  and  to 
feel  still  before  me  the  ever-deepening  interest  and 
ever-widening  beauty  of  the  miracle  play  to  which 
Nature  annually  bids  us  welcome.  Across  this 
noble  playground,  with  its  sweep  of  landscape  and 
its  arch  of  sky,  I  often  wander  with  no  companions 
but  the  flowers,  and  with  no  desire  for  other  fellow 
ship.  Here,  as  in  more  secluded  and  quiet  places, 
Nature  confides  to  those  who  love  her  some  deep 
and  precious  truths  never  to  be  put  into  words,  but 
ever  after  to  rise  at  times  over  the  horizon  of 
thought  like  vagrant  ships  that  come  and  go  against 
the  distant  sea  line,  or  like  clouds  that  pass  along 
the  remotest  circle  of  the  sky  as  it  sleeps  upon  the 
hills.  The  essence  of  play  is  the  unconscious  over 
flow  of  life  that  seeks  escape  in  perfect  self-forget- 
fulness.  There  is  no  effort  in  it,  no  whip  of  the 
will  driving  the  unwilling  energies  to  an  activity 


THE    OPEN  FIELDS.  27 

from  which  they  shrink  ;  one  plays  as  the  bird 
sings  and  the  brook  runs  and  the  sun  shines — not 
with  conscious  purpose,  but  from  the  simple  over 
flow.  In  this  sense  Nature  never  works,  she  is 
always  at  play.  In  perfect  unconsciousness,  with 
out  friction  or  effort,  her  mightiest  movements  are 
made  and  her  sublimest  tasks  accomplished. 
Throughout  the  whole  range  of  her  activity  one 
never  comes  upon  any  trace  of  effort,  any  sign  of 
weariness  ;  one  is  always  impressed — as  Ruskin 
said  long  ago  of  works  of  genius — that  he  is  stand 
ing  in  the  presence,  not  of  a  great  effort,  but  of  a 
great  power  ;  that  what  has  been  done  is  only  a 
single  manifestation  of  the  play  of  an  inexhaustible 
force.  There  is  somewhere  in  the  universe  an  in 
finite  fountain  of  life  and  beauty  which  overflows 
and  floods  all  worlds  with  divine  energy  and  loveli 
ness.  When  the  tide  recedes  it  pauses  but  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  the  music  of  its  returning  waves  is 
heard  along  all  shores,  and  its  shining  edges  move 
irresistibly  on  until  they  have  bathed  the  roots  of 
the  solitary  flower  on  the  highest  Alp. 

It  is  this  divine  method  of  growth  which  Nature 
opposes  to  our  mechanisms  ;  it  is  this  inexhaustible 
life,  overflowing  in  unconsciousness  and  boundless 
fulness,  that  she  forever  reveals.  The  truth  which 
underlies  these  two  great  facts  needs  no  application 
to  human  life.  Blessed,  indeed,  are  they  who  live 
in  it,  and  have  caught  from  it  something  of  the  joy, 
the  health,  and  the  perennial  beauty  of  Nature. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

EARTH      AND      SKY. 

IN  nature,  as  in  art,  it  is  the  sky  which  makes  the 
landscape.  Given  the  identical  fields,  woods,  and 
retreating  hills,  and  every  change  of  sky,  every 
modulation  of  light,  will  produce  a  new  landscape  ; 
in  light  and  atmosphere  are  concealed  those  mys 
teries  of  color,  of  distance,  and  of  tone  which  clothe 
the  changeless  features  of  the  visible  world  with 
infinite  variety  and  charm.  This  fruitful  marriage 
of  the  upper  and  the  lower  firmaments  is  perhaps 
the  oldest  fact  known  to  men  ;  it  was  the  earliest 
discovery  of  the  first  observer,  it  still  is  the  most 
illusive  and  beautiful  mystery  in  nature.  The  most 
ancient  mythologies  began  with  it,  the  latest  books 
of  science  and  natural  observation  are  still  dealing 
with  it.  Myths  that  are  older  than  history  portray 
it  in  lofty  symbolism  or  in  splendid  histories  that 
embody  the  primitive  ideals  of  divinity  and  hu 
manity  ;  the  latest  poets  and  painters  would  fain 
touch  their  verse  or  their  canvas  with  some  lumi 
nous  gleam  from  the  heart  of  this  perpetual  miracle. 
The  unbroken  procession  of  the  seasons  changes 
month  by  month  the  relations  of  earth  and  sky  ;  day 
and  night  all  the  water-courses  of  the  world  rise  in 
28 


EARTH  AND   SKY.  29 

invisible  moisture  to  a  fellowship  with  the  birds  that 
have  passed  on  swift  wing  above  their  currents  ; 
the  great  outlying  seas,  that  sound  the  notes  of 
their  vast  and  passionate  unrest  upon  the  shores  of 
every  continent,  are  continually  drawn  upward  to 
swell  the  invisible  upper  ocean  which,  out  of  its 
mighty  life,  feeds  every  green  and  fruitful  thing 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  This  movement  of 
the  oceans  upon  the  continents  through  the  illimit 
able  channels  of  the  sky  is,  in  some  ways,  the  most 
mysterious  and  the  most  sublime  of  those  miracles 
which  each  day  testify  to  the  presence  and  majesty 
of  that  Spirit  behind  Nature  of  whom  the  greatest 
of  modern  poets  thought  when  he  wrote  : 

Thus  at  the  roaring  loom  of  time  I  ply 

And  weave  for  God  the  robe  thou  seest  Him  by. 

The  vast  inland  grain  fields,  that  stretch  in  un 
broken  procession  from  horizon  to  horizon,  have 
the  seas  at  their  roots  not  less  truly  than  the  fertile 
soil  out  of  which  they  spring  ;  the  verdure  upon 
the  mountain  ranges,  that  keep  unbroken  solitude 
at  the  heart  of  the  continents,  speaks  forever  of  the 
distant  oceans  which  nourish  it,  and  spread  it  like 
a  vesture  over  the  barren  heights.  No  traveler, 
deep  in  the  recesses  of  the  remotest  inland,  ever 
passes  beyond  the  voice  of  that  encircling  ocean 
which  never  died  out  of  the  ears  of  the  ancient 
Ulysses  in  the  first  Odyssey  of  wandering. 

Two  months  ago  the  apple  trees  were  white  with 


30  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

the  foam  of  the  upper  sea ;  to-day  the  roses  have 
brought  into  my  little  patch  of  garden  the  hues  with 
which  sun  and  sea  proclaimed  their  everlasting 
marriage  in  the  twilight  of  yester  even.  In  the 
deep,  passionate  heart  of  these  splendid  flowers, 
fragrant  since  they  bloomed  in  Sappho's  hand  cen 
turies  ago,  this  sublime  wedlock  is  annually  cele 
brated  ;  earth  and  sky  meet  arid  commingle  in  this 
miracle  of  color  and  sweetness,  and  when  I  carry 
this  lovely  flower  into  my  study  all  the  poets  fall 
silent  ;  here  is  a  depth  of  life,  a  radiant  outcome 
from  the  heart  of  mysteries,  a  hint  of  unimagined 
beauty,  such  as  they  have  never  brought  to  me  in 
all  their  seeking.  They  have  had  their  visions  and 
made  them  music  ;  they  have  caught  faint  echoes 
of  rushing  seas  and  falling  tides  ;  the  shadows  of 
mountains  have  fallen  upon  them  with  low  whisper 
ings  of  unspeakable  things  hidden  in  the  unexplored 
recesses  of  their  solitudes  ;  they  have  searched  the 
limitless  arch  of  heaven  when  it  was  sown  with 
stars,  and  glittered  like  "  an  archangel  full  pano 
plied  against  a  battle  day";  but  in  all  their  quest 
the  sublime  unity  of  Nature,  the  fellowship  of  force 
with  force,  of  sea  with  sky,  of  moisture  with  light, 
of  form  with  color,  has  found  at  their  hands  no  such 
transcendent  demonstration  as  this  fragile  rose, 
which  to-night  brings  from  the  great  temple  to  this 
little  shrine  the  perfume  and  the  royalty  of  obedi 
ence  to  the  highest  laws,  and  reverence  for  the 
divinest  mysteries.  Here  sky  and  earth  and  sea 


EARTH  AND   SKY.  31 

meet  in  a  union  which  no  science  can  dissolve,  be 
cause  God  has  joined  them  together.  Could  I  but 
penetrate  the  mystery  which  lies  at  the  heart  of  this 
fragile  flower,  I  should  possess  the  secret  of  the 
universe  ;  I  should  understand  the  ancient  miracle 
which  has  baffled  wisdom  from  the  beginning  and 
will  not  discover  itself  to  the  end  of  time. 

If  I  permit  my  thought  to  rest  upon  this  fragrant 
flower,  to  touch  petal  and  stem  and  root,  and  unite 
them  with  the  vast  world  in  which,  by  a  universal 
contribution  of  force,  they  have  come  to  maturity, 
I  find  myself  face  to  face  with  the  oldest  and  the 
deepest  questions  men  have  ever  sought  to  answer. 
Elements  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky  are  blended  here 
in  one  of  those  forms  of  radiant  and  vanishing 
beauty  with  which  the  unseen  life  of  Nature  crowns 
the  years  in  endless  and  inexhaustible  profusion. 
As  it  budded  and  opened  into  full  flower  in  the 
garden,  how  complete  it  seemed  in  itself,  and  how 
isolated  from  all  other  visible  things  !  But  in 
reality  how  dependent  it  was,  how  entirely  the  crea 
tion  of  forces  as  far  apart  as  earth  and  sky  !  The 
great  tide  from  the  Unseen  cast  it  for  a  moment  into 
my  possession  ;  for  an  hour  it  has  filled  a  human 
home  with  its  far-brought  sweetness  ;  to-morrow  it 
will  fall  apart  and  return  whence  it  came.  As  I  look 
into  its  heart  of  passionate  color,  the  whole  visible 
universe,  that  seems  so  fixed  and  stable,  becomes  im 
material,  evanescent,  vanishing ;  it  is  no  longer  a 
permanent  order  of  seas  and  continents  and 


32  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

rounded  skies  ;  it  is  a  vision  painted  by  an  unseen 
hand  against  a  background  of  mystery.  Dead, 
cold,  unchangeable  as  I  see  it  in  the  glimpses  of  a 
single  hour,  it  becomes  warm,  vital,  forever  chang 
ing  as  I  gaze  upon  it  from  the  outlook  of  the  cen 
turies.  It  is  the  momentary  creation  of  forces  that 
stream  through  it  in  endless  ebb  and  flow,  that  are 
to-day  touching  the  sky  with  elusive  splendor,  and 
to-morrow  springing  in  changeful  loveliness  from 
the  depths  of  earth.  The  continents  are  trans 
formed  into  the  seas  that  encircle  them  ;  the  seas 
rise  into  the  skies  that  overarch  them  ;  the  skies 
mingle  with  the  earth,  and  send  back  from  the  up 
lifted  faces  of  flowers  greetings  to  the  stars  they 
have  deserted.  Mountains  rise  and  sink  in  the 
sublime  rhythm  to  which  the  movement  of  the  uni 
verse  is  set  ;  that  song  without  words  still  audible 
in  the  sacred  hour  when  the  morning  stars  an 
nounce  the  day,  and  the  birds  match  their  tiny 
melodies  with  the  universal  harmony. 

In  the  unbroken  vision  of  the  centuries  all  things 
are  plastic  and  in  motion  ;  a  divine  energy  surges 
through  all ;  substantial  for  a  moment  here  as  a 
rock,  fragile  and  vanishing  there  as  a  flower  ;  but 
everywhere  the  same,  and  always  sweeping  onward 
through  its  illimitable  channel  to  its  appointed  end. 
It  is  this  vital  tide  on  which  the  universe  gleams 
and  floats  like  a  mirage  of  immutability  ;  never  the 
same  for  a  single  moment  to  the  soul  that  contem 
plates  it  :  a  new  creation  each  hour  and  to  every 


EARTH  AND   SKY.  33 

eye  that  rests  upon  it.  No  dead  mechanism  moves 
the  stars,  or  lifts  the  tides,  or  calls  the  flowers  from 
their  sleep  ;  truly  this  is  the  garment  of  Deity, 
and  here  is  the  awful  splendor  of  the  Perpetual 
Presence.  It  is  the  old  story  of  the  Greek  Proteus 
translated  into  universal  speech.  It  is  the  song  of 
the  Persian  poet  : 

The  sullen  mountain,  and  the  bee  that  hums, 

A  flying  joy,  about  its  flowery  base, 
Each  from  the  same  immediate  fountain  comes, 

And  both  compose  one  evanescent  race. 

There  is  no  difference  in  the  texture  fine 

That's  woven  through  organic  rock  and  grass, 

And  that  which  thrills  man's  heart  in  every  line, 
As  o'er  its  web  God's  weaving  fingers  pass. 

The  timid  flower  that  decks  the  fragrant  field, 
The  daring  star  that  tints  the  solemn  dome, 

From  one  propulsive  force  to  being  reeled; 
Both  keep  one  law  and  have  a  single  home. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    MYSTERY    OF    NIGHT. 

EVERY  day  two  worlds  lie  at  my  door  and  invite 
me  into  mysteries  as  far  apart  as  darkness  and 
light.  These  two  realms  have  nothing  in  common 
save  a  certain  identity  of  form  ;  color,  relation,  dis 
tance,  are  lost  or  utterly  changed.  In  the  vast 
fields  of  heaven  a  still  more  complete  and  sublime 
transformation  is  wrought.  It  is  a  new  hemisphere 
which  hangs  above  me,  with  countless  fires  light 
ing  the  awful  highways  of  the  universe,  and  guid 
ing  the  daring  and  reverent  thought  as  it  falters  in 
the  highest  empyrean.  The  mind  that  has  come 
into  fellowship  with  Nature  is  subtly  moved  and 
penetrated  by  the  decline  of  light  and  the  oncom 
ing  of  darkness.  As  the  sun  is  replaced  by  the 
stars,  so  is  the  hot,  restless,  eager  spirit  of  the  day 
replaced  by  the  infinite  calm  and  peace  of  the 
night.  The  change  does  not  come  abruptly  or 
with  the  suddenness  of  violent  movement  ;  no  dial 
is  delicate  enough  to  register  the  moment  when 
day  gives  place  to  night.  With  that  amplitude  of 
power  which  accompanies  every  movement,  with 
that  sublime  quietude  of  energy  which  pervades 
every  action,  Nature  calls  the  day  across  the  hills 

34 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  NIGHT.  35 

and  summons  the  night  that  has  been  waiting  at 
the  eastern  gates.  No  stir,  no  strife,  no  noise  of 
great  activities,  put  forth  on  a  vast  scale,  break  the 
spell  of  an  hour  which  is  the  daily  witness  of  a 
miracle,  and  waits,  hushed  and  silent,  in  a  world 
wide  worship,  while  the  altar  fires  blaze  on  the 
western  hills. 

In  that  unspeakable  splendor,  earth  and  air  and 
sea  are  for  the  moment  one,  and  through  them  all 
there"  flashes  a  divine  radiance  ;  time  is  not  left 
without  the  witness  of  its  sanctity  as  it  fades  off 
the  dials  of  earth  and  slips  like  a  shining  rivulet 
into  the  shoreless  sea  of  light  beyond.  The  day 
that  was  born  with  seas  and  suns  at  its  cradle  is  fol 
lowed  to  its  grave  by  the  long  procession  of  the  stars. 
And  now  that  it  has  gone,  with  its  numberless 
activities,  and  the  heat  and  stress  of  their  conten 
tions,  how  gently  and  irresistibly  Nature  summons 
her  children  back  to  herself,  and  touches  the  brow, 
hot  with  the  fever  of  work,  with  the  hand  of  peace  ! 
An  infinite  silence  broods  over  the  fields  and  upon 
the  restless  bosom  of  the  sea.  Insensibly  there 
steals  into  thought,  spent  and  weary  with  many 
problems,  a  deep  and  sweet  repose  ;  the  soul  does 
not  sleep ;  it  returns  to  the  ancient  mother,  and  at 
her  breast  feels  the  old  hopes  revived,  the  old 
aspirations  quickened,  the  old  faiths  relight  their 
dying  fires.  The  fever  of  agonizing  struggle  yields 
to  the  calm  of  infinite  trust;  the  clouds  fall  apart 
qnd  reveal  the  vision,  that  seemed  lost,  inviolate 


36  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

forever;  the  brief,  fierce,  fruitless  strife  for  self  is 
succeeded  by  an  unquestioning  trust  in  that  uni 
versal  good,  above  and  beyond  all  thought,  for 
which  the  universe  stands.  Who  shall  despair 
while  the  fields  of  earth  are  sown  with  flowers  and 
the  fields  of  heaven  blossom  with  stars  ?  The 
open  heart  knows,  in  a  revelation  which  comes  to 
it  with  every  dawn  and  sunset,  that  life  does  not 
mock  its  children  when  it  holds  this  cup  of  peace 
to  their  anguished  lips,  and  that  into  this  tideless 
sea  of  rest  and  beauty  every  breathless  and  turbu 
lent  streamlet  flows  at  last. 

In  the  silence  of  night  how  real  and  divine  the 
universe  becomes  !  Doubt  and  unbelief  retreat  be 
fore  the  awful  voices  that  were  silenced  by  the  din 
of  the  day,  but  now  that  the  little  world  of  man  is 
hushed,  seem  to  have  blended  all  sounds  into  them 
selves.  Beyond  the  circle  of  trees,  through  which 
a  broken  vision  of  stars  comes  and  goes  with 
the  evening  wind,  the  broad  earth  lies  hushed  and 
hidden.  Along  the  familiar  road  a  new  and  mys 
terious  charm  is  spread  like  a  net  that  entangles 
the  feet  of  every  traveler  and  keeps  him  loitering 
on  where  he  would  have  passed  in  unobservant 
haste  by  day.  The  great  elms  murmur  in  low,  in 
articulate  tones,  and  the  shadows  at  their  feet  hide 
themselves  from  the  moon,  moving  noiselessly 
through  all  the  summer  night.  The  woods  in  the 
distance  stand  motionless  in  the  wealth  of  their 
massed  foliage,  keeping  guard  over  the  unbroken 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  NIGHT.  37 

silence  that  reigns  in  all  their  branching  aisles. 
Beyond  the  far-spreading  waters  lie  white  and 
dreamlike,  and  tempt  the  thought  to  the  fairylands 
that  sleep  just  beyond  the  line  of  the  horizon.  A 
sweet  and  restful  mystery,  like  a  bridal  veil,  hides 
the  face  of  Nature,  and  he  only  can  venture  to  lift  it 
who  has  won  the  privilege  by  long  and  faithful  de 
votion. 

If  the  night  be  starlit  the  shadows  are  denser,  the 
outlook  narrower,  the  mystery  deeper  ;  but  what  a 
vision  overhangs  the  world  and  makes  the  night 
sublime  with  the  poetry  of  God's  thought  visible  to 
all  eyes  !  Who  does  not  feel  the  passage  of  divine 
dreams  over  his  troubled  life  when  the  infinite 
meadows  of  heaven  are  suddenly  abloom  with  light  ? 
On  such  a  night  immortality  is  written  on  earth  and 
sky;  in  the  silence  and  darkness  there  is  no  hint  of 
death  ;  a  sweet  and  fragrant  life  seems  to  breathe 
its  subtle,  inaudible  music  through  all  things.  In 
the  depths  of  the  woods  one  feels  no  loneliness;  no 
liquid  note  of  hermit  thrush  is  needed  to  make 
that  silence  music.  The  harmony  of  universal 
movement,  rounded  by  one  thought,  carried  for 
ward  by  one  power,  guided  to  one  end,  is  there  for 
those  who  will  listen  ;  the  mighty  activities  which 
feed  the  century-girded  oak  from  the  invisible 
chambers  of  air  and  the  secret  places  of  the  earth 
are  so  divinely  adjusted  to  their  work  that  one 
shall  never  detect  their  toil  by  any  sound  of 
struggle  or  by  any  sight  of  effort.  Noiselessly,  in- 


3§  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

visibly,  the  great  world  breathes  new  life  into  every 
part  of  its  being,  while  the  darkness  curtains  it 
from  the  fierce  ardor  of  the  day. 

In  the  night  the  fountains  are  open  and  flowing  ; 
a  marvelous  freshness  touches  leaf  and  flower  and 
grass,  and  rebuilds  their  shattered  loveliness.  The 
stars  look  down  from  their  inaccessible  heights  on 
a  new  creation,  and  as  the  procession  of  the  hours 
passes  noiselessly  on,  it  leaves  behind  a  dewy  fra 
grance  which  shall  exhale  before  the  rising  sun, 
like  a  universal  incense,  making  the  portals  of  the 
morning  sweet  with  prophecies  of  the  flowers  which 
are  yet  to  bloom,  and  the  birds  whose  song  still 
sleeps  with  the  hours  it  shall  set  to  music.  fThe 
unbroken  repose  of  Nature,  born  not  of  idleness 
but  of  the  perfect  adjustment  of  immeasurable 
forces  to  their  task,  becomes  more  real  and  com 
prehensible  when  the  darkness  hides  the  infinitude 
of  details,  and  leaves  only  the  great  massive 
effects  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon.  While  men 
sleep,  the  world  sweeps  silently  onward  under 
the  watchful  stars,  in  a  flight  which  makes  no 
sound  and  leaves  no  trace.  Through  the  deep 
shadows  the  mountains  loom  in  solitary  and 
awful  grandeur  ;  the  wide  seas  send  forth  and 
recall  their  mighty  tides ;  the  continents  lie 
veiled  in  rolling  mists  ;  the  immeasurable  uni 
verse  glitters  and  burns  to  the  farthest  out 
skirts  of  space  ;  and  yet,  nestled  amid  this  sub 
lime  activity,  the  little  flower  dreams  of  the  day, 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  NIGHT.  39 

and  in  its  sleep  is  ministered  to  as  perfectly  as  if  it 
were  the  only  created  thing. 

When  one  stands  on  the  shores  of  night  and  looks 
off  on  that  mighty  sea  of  darkness  in  which  a  world 
lies  engulfed,  there  is  no  thought  but  worship  and 
no  speech  but  silence.  Face  to  face  with  immensity 
and  infinity,  one  travels  in  thought  among  the  shin 
ing  islands  that  rise  up  out  of  the  fathomless  shad 
ows,  and  feels  everywhere  the  stir  of  a  life  which 
knows  no  weariness  and  makes  no  sound,  which 
pervades  the  darkness  no  less  than  the  light,  and 
makes  the  night  glorious  as  the  day  with  its  garni 
ture  of  constellations  ;  and  even  as  one  waits, 
speechless  and  awestruck,  the  morning  star  touches 
the  edges  of  the  hills,  and  a  new  day  breaks  re 
splendent  in  the  eastern  sky. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

OFF    SHORE. 

WHO  has  not  heard,  amid  the  heat  and  din  of 
cities,  the  voice  of  the  sea  striking  suddenly  into 
the  hush  of  thought  its  penetrating  note  of  mystery 
and  longing  ?  Then  work  and  the  fever  which  goes 
with  it  vanished  on  the  instant,  and  in  the  crowded 
street  or  in  the  narrow  room  there  rose  the  vision 
of  unbroken  stretches  of  sky,  free  winds,  and  the 
surge  of  the  unresting  waves.  That  invitation 
never  loses  its  alluring  power  ;  no  distance  wastes 
its  music,  and  no  preoccupation  silences  its  solici 
tation.  It  stirs  the  oldest  memories,  and  awakens 
the  most  primitive  instincts  ;  the  long  past  speaks 
through  it,  and  through  it  the  buried  generations 
snatch  a  momentary  immortality.  History  that  has 
left  no  record,  rich  and  varied  human  experiences 
that  have  no  chronicle,  rise  out  of  the  forgetfulness 
in  which  they  are  engulfed,  and  are  puissant  once 
more  in  the  intense  and  irresistible  longing  with 
which  the  heart  answers  the  call  of  the  sea.  Once 
more  the  blood  flows  with  fuller  pulse,  the  eye 
flashes  with  conscious  freedom  and  power,  the 
heart  beats  to  the  music  of  wind  and  wave,  as  in 
the  days  when  the  fathers  of  a  long  past  spread  sail 
40 


OFF  SHORE.  41 

and  sought  home,  spoil,  or  change  upon  the  track 
less  waste.  Into  every  past  the  sea  has  sometime 
sounded  its  mighty  note  of  joy  or  anguish,  and 
deep  in  every  memory  there  remains  some  vision  of 
tossing  waves  that  once  broke  on  eyes  long  sealed. 
All  day  the  free  winds  have  filled  the  heavens, 
and  flung  here  and  there  a  handful  of  foam  upon 
the  surface  of  the  deep.  No  cloud  has  dimmed  the 
splendor  of  a  day  which  has  filled  the  round  heavens 
with  soft  music  and  touched  the  sea  with  strange  and 
changeful  beauty.  It  has  been  enough  to  wait  and 
watch,  to  forget  self,  to  escape  the  limitations  of 
personality,  and  to  become  part  of  the  movement, 
which,  hour  by  hour,  has  passed  through  one  mar 
velous  change  after  another,  until  now  it  seems  to 
pause  under  the  sleepless  vigilance  of  the  stars. 
They  look  down  from  their  immeasurable  altitudes 
on  the  vast  expanse  of  which  only  a  miniature  hemi 
sphere  stretches  before  me.  How  wide  and  fath 
omless  seems  the  ocean,  even  from  a  single  isolated 
point !  What  infinite  distances  are  only  half  veiled 
by  the  distant  horizon  line  !  What  islands  and 
continents  and  undiscovered  worlds  lie  beyond  that 
faint  and  ever  receding  circle  where  the  sight 
pauses,  while  the  thought  travels  unimpeded  on  its 
pathless  way?  There  lies  the  untamed  world  which 
brooks  no  human  control,  and  preserves  the  prime 
val  solitude  of  the  epochs  before  men  came  ;  there 
are  the  elemental  forces  mingling  and  commin 
gling  in  eternal  fellowships  and  rivalries.  There  the 


42  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

winds  sweep,  and  the  storms  marshal  their  shadows 
as  on  the  first  day ;  there,  too,  the  sunlight  sleeps 
on  the  summer  sea  as  it  slept  in  those  forgotten 
summers  before  a  sail  had  ever  whitened  the  blue, 
or  a  keel  cut  evanescent  furrows  in  the  trackless 
waste. 

Every  hour  has  brought  its  change  to  make  this 
day  memorable  ;  hour  by  hour  the  lights  have 
transformed  the  waters  and  hung  over  them  a  sky 
full  of  varied  and  changeful  radiance.  Across  the 
line  of  the  distant  horizon  white  sails  have  come 
and  gone  in  broken  and  mysterious  procession,  and 
the  imagination  has  followed  them  far  in  their 
unknown  journeyings.  As  silently  as  they  passed 
from  sight,  all  human  history  enacted  in  this  vast 
province  of  nature's  empire  has  vanished,  and  left 
no  trace  of  itself  save  here  and  there  a  bit  of  drift 
wood.  There  lies  the  unconquered  and  forever 
inviolate  kingdom  of  forces  over  which  no  human 
skill  will  ever  cast  the  net  of  conquest. 

The  sea  speaks  to  the  imagination  as  no  other 
aspect  of  the  natural  world  does,  because  of  its 
vastness,  its  immeasurable  and  overwhelming 
power,  its  exclusion  from  human  history,  its  free, 
buoyant,  changeful  being.  It  stands  for  those 
strange  and  unfamiliar  revelations  with  which  na 
ture  sometimes  breaks  in  upon  our  easy  relation 
with  her,  and  brings  back  on  the  instant  that  sense 
of  remoteness  which  one  feels  when  in  intimate  fel 
lowship  a  friend  suddenly  lifts  the  curtain  from 


OFF  SHORE.  43 

some  great  experience  hitherto  unsuspected.  In 
the  vast  sweep  of  life  through  Nature  there  must 
always  be  aspects  of  awful  strangeness ;  great 
realms  of  mystery  will  remain  unexplored,  and  al 
most  inaccessible  to  human  thought  ;  days  will 
dawn  at  intervals  in  which  those  who  love  most  and 
are  nearest  Nature  will  feel  an  impenetrable  cloud 
over  all  things,  and  be  suddenly  smitten  with  a 
sense  of  weakness  ;  the  greatest  of  all  her  interpre 
ters  are  but  children  in  knowledge  of  her  mighty 
activities  and  forces.  On  the  sea  this  sense  of  re 
moteness  and  strangeness  comes  oftener  than  in 
the  presence  of  any  other  natural  form  ;  even  the 
mountains  make  sheltered  places  for  our  thought  at 
their  feet,  or  along  their  precipitous  ledges ;  but 
the  sea  makes  no  concessions  to  our  human  weak 
ness,  and  leaves  the  message  which  it  intones  with 
the  voice  of  tempest  and  the  roar  of  surge  without 
an  interpreter.  Men  have  come  to  it  in  all  ages, 
full  of  a  passionate  desire  to  catch  its  meaning  and 
enter  into  its  secret,  but  the  thought  of  the  bold 
est  of  them  has  only  skirted  its  shores,  and  the  vast 
sweep  of  untamed  waters  remains  as  on  the  first 
day.  Homer  has  given  us  the  song  of  the  land 
locked  sea,  but  where  has  the  ocean  found  a  hu 
man  voice  that  is  not  lost  and  forgotten  when  it 
speaks  to  us  in  its  own  penetrating  tones  ?  The 
mountains  stand  revealed  in  more  than  one  inter 
pretation,  touched  by  their  own  sublimity,  but  the 
sea  remains  silent  in  human  speech,  because  no 


44  UNDER    THE    J^REES. 

voice  will  ever  be  strong  enough  to  match  its  awful 
monody. 

It  is  because  the  sea  preserves  its  secret  that  it 
sways  our  imagination  so  royally,  and  holds  us  by 
an  influence  which  never  loosens  its  grasp.  Again 
and  again  we  return  to  it,  spent  and  worn,  and  it 
refills  the  cup  of  vitality  ;  there  is  life  enough  and 
to  spare  in  its  invisible  and  inexhaustible  chambers 
to  reclothe  the  continents  with  verdure,  and  recreate 
the  shattered  strength  of  man.  Facing  its  unbroken 
solitudes  the  limitations  of  habit  and  thought  be 
come  less  obvious  ;  we  escape  the  monotony  of  a 
routine,  which  bluss  the  senses  and  makes  the  spirit 
less  sensitive  to  the  universe  about  it.  Life  becomes 
free  and  plastic  once  more  ;  a  deep  consciousness 
of  its  inexhaustibleness  comes  over  us  and  recreates 
hope,  vigor,  and  imagination.  Under  the  little 
bridges  of  habit  and  theory,  which  we  have  made 
for  ourselves,  how  vast  and  fathomless  the  sea  of 
being  is !  What  undiscovered  forces  are  there  ; 
what  unknown  secrets  of  power  ;  what  unsearchable 
possibilities  of  development  and  change  !  How 
fresh  and  new  becomes  that  which  we  thought  out 
worn  with  use  and  touched  with  decay  !  How 
boundless  and  untraveled  that  which  we  thought 
explored  and  sounded  to  its  remotest  bound  ! 

At  night,  when  the  vision  of  the  waters  grows  in 
distinct,  what  voices  it  has  for  our  solitude  !  The 
"  eternal  note  of  sadness,"  to  which  all  ages  and 
races  have  listened,  and  the  faint  echoes  of  which 


OFF  SHORE.  45 

are  heard  in  every  literature,  fills  us  with  a  longing 
as  vast  as  the  sea  and  as  vague.  Infinity  and  eter* 
nity  are  not  too  great  for  the  spirit  when  the  spell 
of  the  sea  is  on  it,  and  the  voice  of  the  sea  fills  it 
with  uncreated  music. 


CHAPTER  IX, 

A    MOUNTAIN     RIVULET. 

THIS  morning  the  day  broke  with  a  promise  of 
sultry  heat  which  has  been  faithfully  kept.  The 
air  was  lifeless,  the  birds  silent  ;  the  landscape 
seemed  to  shrink  from  the  ardor  of  a  gaze  that 
penetrated  to  the  very  roots  of  the  trees,  and  cov 
ered  itself  with  a  faint  haze.  All  things  stood 
hushed  and  motionless  in  a  dream  of  heat  ;  even 
the  harvest  fields  were  deserted.  On  such  a  day 
nature  herself  becomes  voiceless  ;  she  seems  to  re 
treat  into  those  deep  and  silent  chambers  where 
the  sources  of  her  life  are  hidden  alike  from  the 
heat  and  cold,  from  darkness  and  light.  A  strange 
and  foreboding  stillness  is  abroad  in  the  earth,  and 
one  hides  himself  from  the  sun  as  from  an  enemy. 

In  this  unnatural  hush  there  was  one  voice  which 
made  the  silence  less  ominous,  and  revived  the 
spent  and  withered  freshness  of  the  spirit.  To 
hear  that  voice  seemed  to  me  this  morning  the  one 
consolation  which  the  day  offered.  It  called  me 
with  cool,  delicious  tones  that  seemed  almost  audi 
ble,  and  I  braved  the  deadly  heat  as  the  traveler 
urges  his  way  over  the  desert  to  the  oasis  that 
promises  a  draught  of  life.  As  I  passed  along  the 
46 


A   MOUNTAIN  RIVULET.  47 

broad  aisle  of  the  village  street,  arched  by  the 
venerable  trees  of  an  older  generation,  I  seemed  to 
be  in  dreamland  ;  no  sound  broke  the  repose  of 
midday,  no  footstep  echoed  far  or  near  ;  the  cattle 
stood  motionless  in  the  fields  beneath  the  shelter 
ing  branches.  I  turned  into  the  dusty  country 
road,  and  saw  the  vision  of  the  g'oat  encircling 
hills,  remote,  shadowless,  and  dreamlike,  against 
the  white  August  sky.  I  sauntered  slowly  on, 
pausing  here  and  there  at  the  foot  of  some  sturdy 
oak  or  wide-branched  apple,  until  I  reached  the 
little  stream  that  comes  rippling  down  from  the 
mountain  glen.  A  short  walk  across  the  fields 
under  the  burning  sun  brought  me  into  the  shadow 
of  the  trees  that  skirt  the  borders  of  the  woodland. 
The  brook  loitered  between  its  green  and  sloping 
banks  and  broke  in  tiny  billows  over  the  smooth 
stones  that  lay  in  its  bed  ;  the  shadows  grew  denser 
as  I  advanced,  and  a  delicious  coolness  from  the 
depths  of  the  woods  touched  the  sultry  atmosphere. 
A  moment  later,  and  I  stood  within  the  glen.  The 
world  of  human  activity  had  vanished,  shut  out  of 
sight  and  sound  by  the  deepening  foliage  of  the 
trees  behind  me.  Overhead  hardly  a  leaf  stirred, 
but  the  branching  boughs  spread  a  marvelous  roof 
between  the  heavens  and  the  woodland  paths,  and 
suffered  only  a  stray  flash  of  light  here  and  there 
to  strike  through.  As  I  advanced  slowly  along  the 
well-worn  path  beside  the  brook,  the  glen  grew 
more  and  more  narrow,  the  hillsides  more  and 


48  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

more  precipitous.  In  the  dusky  light  that  sifted 
down  through  the  great  trees  I  felt  the  delicious  re 
lief  of  low  tones  after  the  glare  of  the  summer  day. 
It  was  another  world  into  which  I  had  come  ;  a 
world  of  unbroken  repose  and  silence,  a  world  of 
sweet  and  fragrant  airs  cooled  by  the  mountain 
rivulet  and  shielded  by  the  mountain  summits  and 
the  arching  umbrage. 

The  path  vanished  at  last  and  nothing  remained 
but  the  narrow  channel  of  the  brook  itself,  the 
smooth  stones  making  a  precarious  and  uncertain 
footing  for  the  adventurous  explorer.  How  sooth 
ing  was  the  ceaseless  plash  of  that  little  stream, 
fretting  its  moss-grown  banks  and  dashing  in  minia 
ture  surge  against  the  stones  in  its  path  !  What 
infinite  peace  reigned  in  this  place,  around  which 
the  brotherhood  of  mountains  had  gathered,  to  hold 
it  inviolate  against  all  comers !  The  great  rocks 
were  moss-covered,  the  steep  slopes  on  either  side 
were  faintly  flecked  with  light,  and  one  saw  here 
and  there,  through  the  clustered  trunks  of  trees,  a 
gleam  of  blue  sky.  Sometimes  the  brook  narrowed 
to  a  tiny  stream,  rushing  with  impetuous  current 
between  the  rocky  walls  that  formed  its  channel  ; 
then  it  spread  out  shallow  and  noisy  over  some 
broader  expanse  of  white  sand  and  polished  pebble ; 
then  it  loitered  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  and 
became  a  deep,  silent  pool,  full  of  shadows  and  the 
mysteries  which  lurk  in  such  remote  and  dusky 
places. 


' 


A   MOUNTAIN  RIYULET.  49 

It  was  beside  such  a  pool  that  I  paused  at  last, 
and  seated  myself  with  infinite  content.  Before 
me  the  glen  narrowed  into  a  rocky  chasm,  over 
which  the  adventurous  trees  that  clung  to  the  pre 
cipitous  hillsides  spread  a  dense  roof  of  foliage. 
The  dark  pool  at  my  feet  was  full  of  mysterious 
shadows  and  seemed  to  cover  epochs  of  buried 
history.  As  I  studied  its  motionless  surface  the 
old  medieval  legends  of  black,  fathomless  pools 
came  back  to  me,  and  I  felt  the  air  of  enchantment 
stealing  over  me,  lulling  my  latter-day  skepticism 
into  sleep,  and  making  all  mysteries  rational  and 
all  marvels  probable.  In  these  silent  depths  no 
magical  art  had  ever  submerged  cities  or  castles  ; 
on  the  stillest  of  all  quiet  afternoons  no  muffled 
echoes,  faint  and  far,  float  up  through  the  waveless 
waters.  But  who  knows  what  shadows  have  sunk 
into  these  sunless  depths  ;  what  reflections  of 
waving  branches,  what  sittings  of  subdued  light, 
what  hushed  echoes  of  the  forgotten  summers  that 
perished  here  ages  ago  ? 

In  such  a  place,  at  such  an  hour,  one  feels  the 
most  subtle  and  the  most  searching  spell  which  Na 
ture  ever  throws  over  those  that  seek  her  ;  a  spell 
woven  of  many  charms,  magical  potions,  and  pow 
erful  incantations.  The  quiet  of  the  place,  awful 
with  the  unbroken  silence  of  centuries  ;  the  soft, 
half  light,  which  conceals  more  than  it  discloses  ; 
the  retreating  trunks  of  trees  interlacing  their 
branches  against  invasion  from  light  or  heat  or 


50  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

sound  ;  the  steep  ravine,  receding  in  darker  and 
darker  distance,  until  it  seems  like  one  of  the  fabled 
passages  to  the  under  world  :  the  wide,  shadowy 
pool,  into  which  no  sunlight  falls,  and  in  which  night 
itself  seems  to  sleep  under  the  very  eyes  of  day — all 
these  things  speak  a  language  which  even  the  dullest 
must  understand.  As  I  sit  musing,  conscious  of 
the  darkest  shadows  and  deepest  mysteries  close  at 
hand,  and  yet  undisturbed  by  them,  I  recall  that 
one  of  the  noblest  poems  on  Death  ever  written 
was  inspired  in  this  place  ;  and  I  note  without  sur 
prise,  as  its  solemn  lines  come  back  to  me,  that 
there  is  no  horror  in  it,  no  ignoble  fear,  but  awe 
and  reverence  and  the  sublimity  of  a  great  and 
hopeful  thought.  The  organ  music  of  those  slow- 
moving  verses  seems  like  the  very  voice  of  a  place 
out  of  which  all  dread  has  gone  from  the  thought 
of  death,  and  where  the  brief  span  of  life  seems  to 
arch  the  abyss  of  death  with  immortality. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    EARLIEST    INSIGHTS. 

THE  heaven  which  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy, 
like  every  other  heaven  of  which  men  have  dreamed, 
lies  mainly  within  us  ;  it  is  the  heaven  of  fresh  in 
stincts,  of  unworn  receptivity,  of  expanding  intelli 
gence.  It  is  a  heaven  of  faith  and  wonder,  as 
every  heaven  must  be  ;  it  is  a  heaven  of  recurring 
miracle,  of  renewing  freshness,  of  deepening  in 
terest.  Into  such  a  heaven  every  child  is  born  who 
brings  into  life  that  leaven  of  the  imagination  which 
later  on  is  to  penetrate  the  universe  and  make  it 
one  in  the  sublime  order  of  truth  and  of  beauty. 

As  I  write,  the  merry  shouts  of  children  come 
through  the  open  window,  and  seem  part  of  that 
universal  sound  in  which  the  stir  of  leaves,  the 
faint,  far  song  of  birds,  and  the  note  of  insect  life 
are  blended.  When  I  came  across  the  field  a  few 
moments  ago,  a  voice  called  me  from  under  the 
apple  trees,  and  a  little  figure,  with  a  flush  of  joy  on 
her  face  and  the  fadeless  light  of  love  in  her  eyes, 
came  running  with  uneven  pace  to  meet  me.  How 
slight  and  frail  was  that  vision  of  childhood  to  the 
thought  which  saw  the  awful  forces  of  nature  at 
work,  or  rather  at  play,  about  her  !  And  yet  how 


52  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

serene  was  her  look  upon  the  great  world  dropping 
its  fruit  at  her  feet ;  how  familiar  and  at  ease  her 
attitude  in  the  presence  of  these  sublime  mysteries  ! 
She  is  at  one  with  the  hour  and  the  scene  ;  she  has 
not  begun  to  think  of  herself  as  apart  from  the 
things  which  surround  her ;  that  strange  and  sud 
den  sense  of  unreality  which  makes  me  at  times  an 
alien  and  a  stranger  in  the  presence  of  Nature, 
"  moving  about  in  world  not  realized,"  is  still  far 
off.  For  her  the  sun  shines  and  the  winds  blow, 
the  flowers  bloom  and  the  stars  glisten,  the  trees 
hold  out  their  protecting  arms  and  the  grass 
weaves  its  soft  garment,  and  she  accepts  them 
without  a  thought  of  what  is  behind  them  or  shall 
follow  them  ;  the  painful  process  of  thought,  which 
is  first  to  separate  her  from  Nature  and  then  to  re 
unite  her  to  it  in  a  higher  and  more  spiritual  fel 
lowship,  has  hardly  begun.  She  still  walks  in  the 
soft  light  of  faith,  and  drinks  in  the  immortal 
beauty,  as  the  flower  at  her  side  drinks  in  the  dew 
and  the  light.  It  is  she,  after  all,  who  is  right  as 
she  plays,  joyously  and  at  home,  on  the  ground 
which  the  earthquake  may  rock,  and  under  the  sky 
which  storms"  will  darken  and  rend.  The  far- 
brought  instinct  of  childhood  accepts  without  a 
question  that  great  truth  of  unity  and  fellowship  to 
which  knowledge  comes  only  after  long  and  ago 
nizing  quest.  Between  the  innocent  sleep  of  child 
hood  in  the  arms  of  Nature  and  the  calm  repose  of 
the  old  man  in  the  same  enfolding  strength  there 


THE  EARLIEST  INSIGHTS,  53 

stretches  the  long,  sleepless  day  of  question,  search, 
and  suffering ;  at  the  end  the  wisest  returns  to  the 
goal  from  which  he  set  out. 

To  the  little  child,  Nature  is  a  succession  of  new 
and  wonderful  impressions.  Coming  he  knows  not 
whence,  he  opens  his  eyes  upon  a  world  which  is 
as  new  to  him  as  is  the  virgin  continent  to  the  first 
discoverer.  It  matters  not  that  countless  eyes  have 
already  opened  and  closed  on  the  same  magical 
appearances,  that  numberless  feet  have  trodden 
the  same  paths  ;  for  him  the  morning  star  still 
shines  on  the  first  day,  and  the  dew  of  the  primeval 
night  is  still  on  the  flowers.  Day  by  day  light  and 
shadow  fall  in  unbroken  succession  on  the  sensitive 
surface  of  his  mind,  and  gradually  an  elementary 
order  discovers  itself  in  the  regularity  of  these  re 
curring  impressions.  Form,  color,  distance,  size, 
relativity  of  position  are  felt  rather  than  seen,  and 
the  dim  and  confused  mass  of  sensations  discovers 
something  trustworthy  and  stable  behind.  Nature 
is  now  simple  appearance  ;  thought  has  not  begun 
to  inquire  where  the  lantern  is  hidden  which  throws 
this  wonderful  picture  on  the  clouds,  nor  who  it  is 
that  shifts  the  scenes.  Day  and  night  alternately 
spread  out  a  changeful  successions  of  wonders 
simply  that  the  young  eyes  may  look  upon  them  ; 
and  grass  is  green  and  sky  blue  that  young  feet 
may  find  soft  resting-places  and  the  young  head 
a  beautiful  roof  over  it.  Every  day  is  a  new 
discovery,  and  every  night  receives  into  its  dreams 


54  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

some   new   object   from  the  world  of  sights  and 
sounds. 

Nature  surrounds  her  child  with  invisible  teach 
ers,  and  makes  even  its  play  a  training  for  the 
highest  duties.  Gradually,  imperceptibly,  she  ex 
pands  the  vision  and  suffers  here  and  there  a  hint 
of  something  deeper  and  more  wonderful  to  stir 
and  direct  the  young  discoverer.  He  sees  the 
apple  tree  let  fall  its  blossoms,  and,  lo  !  the  fruit 
grows  day  by  day  to  a  mellow  and  enticing  ripeness 
under  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he  detects  a  hidden 
sequence  between  flower  and  fruit !  The  rose  bush 
is  covered  with  buds,  small,  green,  unsightly  ;  a 
night  passes,  and,  behold  !  great  clusters  of  blos 
soming  flowers  that  call  him  by  their  fragrance, 
and  when  he  has  come  reward  him  with  a  miracle 
of  color.  Here  is  another  mystery  ;  and  day  by 
day  they  multiply  and  grow  yet  more  wonderful. 
These  varied  and  marvelous  appearances  are  no 
longer  detached  and  changeless  to  him  ;  they  are 
alive,  and  they  change  moment  by  moment.  Ah, 
the  young  feet  have  come  now  to  the  very  thresh 
old  of  the  temple,  and  fortunate  are  they  if  there 
be  one  to  guide  them  whose  heart  still  speaks  the 
language  of  childhood  while  her  thought  rests  in 
the  great  truths  which  come  with  deep  and  earnest 
living.  Childhood  is  defrauded  of  half  its  inherit 
ance  when  no  one  swings  wide  before  it  the  door 
into  the  fairyland  of  Nature  ;  a  land  in  which  the 
most  beautiful  dreams  are  like  visions  of  the  dis- 


THE  EARLIEST  INSIGHTS.  55 

tant  Alps,  cloudlike,  apparently  evanescent,  yet 
eternally  true  ;  in  which  the  commonest  realities 
are  more  wonderful  than  visions.  How  many 
children  live  all  their  childhood  in  the  very  heart 
of  this  realm,  and  are  never  so  much  as  told  to 
look  about  them.  The  sublime  miracle  play  is 
yearly  performed  in  their  sight,  and  they  only 
hear  it  said  that  it  is  hot  or  cold,  that  the  day  is 
fair  or  dark  ! 

And  now  there  come  sudden  insights  into  still 
larger  and  more  awful  truths  ;  a  sense  of  wonder 
and  awe  makes  the  night  solemn  with  mystery. 
Who  does  not  recall  some  starlit  night  which  sud 
denly,  alone  on  a  country  road,  perhaps,  seemed  to 
flash  its  splendor  into  his  very  soul  and  lift  all  life 
for  a  moment  to  a  sublime  height  ?  The  trees  stood 
silent  down  the  long  road,  no  other  footstep  echoed 
far  or  near,  one  was  alone  with  Nature  and  at  one 
with  her ;  suspecting  no  strange  nearness  of  her 
presence,  no  sudden  revelation  of  her  inner  self, 
and  yet  in  the  very  mood  in  which  these  were  both 
possible  and  natural.  The  boy  of  Wordsworth's 
imagination  would  stand  beneath  the  trees  "  when 
the  earliest  stars  began  to  move  along  the  edges  of 
the  hills,"  and,  with  fingers  interwoven,  blow  mimic 
hootings  to  the  owls  : 

And  they  would  shout 
Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 
Responsive  to  his  call — with  quivering  peals, 
And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud, 


56  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

Redoubled  and  redoubled  ;  concourse  wild 

Of  mirth  and  jocund  din.     And  when  it  chanced 

That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mock'd  his  skill, 

Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 

Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 

Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 

Of  mountain  torrents  ;  or  the  visible  scene 

Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 

With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 

Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

It  is  in  such  moods  as  this,  when  all  things  are 
forgotten,  and  heart  and  mind  are  open  to  every 
sight  and  sound,  that  Nature  comes  to  the  soul 
with  some  deep,  sweet  message  of  her  inner  being, 
and  with  invisible  hand  lifts  the  curtain  of  mystery 
for  one  hushed  and  fleeting  moment. 

As  I  write,  the  memory  of  a  summer  afternoon 
long  ago  comes  back  to  me.  The  old  orchard 
sleeps  in  the  dreamy  air,  the  birds  are  silent,  a  tran 
quil  spirit  broods  over  the  whole  earth.  Under  the 
wide-spreading  branches  a  boy  is  intently  reading. 
He  has  fallen  upon  a  bit  of  transcendental  writing 
in  a  magazine,  and  for  the  first  time  has  learned 
that  to  some  men  the  great  silent  world  about  him, 
that  seems  so  real  and  changeless,  is  immaterial 
and  unsubstantial — a  vision  projected  by  the  soul 
upon  illimitable  space.  On  the  instant  all  things 
are  smitten  with  unreality ;  the  solid  earth  sinks 
beneath  him,  and  leaves  him  solitary  and  awestruck 
in  a  universe  that  is  a  dream.  He  cannot  under- 


THE  EARLIEST  INSIGHTS.  57 

stand,  but  he  feels  what  Emerson  meant  when  he 
said,  "  The  Supreme  Being  does  not  build  up  Na 
ture  around  us,  but  puts  it  forth  through  us,  as  the 
life  of  the  tree  puts  forth  new  branches  and  leaves." 
That  which  was  fixed,  stable,  cast  in  permanent 
forms  forever,  was  suddenly  annihilated  by  a  reve 
lation  which  spoke  to  the  heart  rather  than  the 
intellect,  and  laid  bare  at  a  glance  the  unseen  spiri 
tual  foundations  upon  which  all  things  rest  at  last. 
From  that  moment  the  boy  saw  with  other  eyes,  and 
lived  henceforth  in  things  not  made  with  hands. 

If  we  could  but  revive  the  consciousness  of 
childhood,  if  we  could  but  look  out  once  more 
through  its  unclouded  eyes,  what  divinity  would 
sow  the  universe  with  light  and  make  it  radiant 
with  fadeless  visions  of  beauty  and  of  truth  ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    HEART    OF    THE    WOODS. 

THERE  are  certain  moods  in  which  my  feet  turn, 
as  by  instinct,  to  the  woods.  I  set  out  upon  the 
winding  road  with  a  zest  of  anticipation  whose  edge 
no  repetition  of  the  after-experience  ever  dulls  ;  I 
loiter  at  the  shaded  turn,  watched  often  by  the 
bright,  quick  eye  of  the  squirrel  peering  over  the 
old  stone  wall,  and  sometimes  uttering  a  chattering 
protest  against  my  invasion  of  his  hereditary  pri 
vacy.  Here  and  there  along  the  way  of  my  familiar 
pilgrimage  a  great  tree  stands  at  the  roadside  and 
spreads  its  far-reaching  shadow  over  the  traveler  ; 
and  these  are  the  places  where  I  always  throw  my 
self  on  the  ground  and  wait  for  the  spirit  of  the 
hour  and  the  scene  to  take  possession  of  me.  One 
needs  preparation  for  the  sanctities  and  solemni 
ties  of  the  woods,  and  in  the  slow  progress  which  I 
always  make  hitherward  the  world  slips  away  with 
the  village  that  sinks  behind  the  hill  at  the  first 
turn  and  reminds  me  no  longer  by  sight  or  sound 
that  life  is  fretting  its  channels  there  and  every 
where  with  its  world-old  pathos  and  onward  move 
ment,  caught  on  the  sudden  by  unseen  currents  and 
into  wild  eddies,  or  flung  over  a  precipice  in 
53 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS.      59 

a  mist  of  tears.  As  I  go  on  I  feel  a  return  of 
emotions  which  I  am  sure  have  their  root  in  my 
earliest  ancestry,  a  freshening  of  sense  which  tells 
me  that  I  am  nearing  again  those  scenes  which  the 
unworn  perceptions  of  primitive  men  first  fronted. 
The  conscious,  self-directed  intellectual  movement 
within  me  seems  somehow  to  cease,  and  something 
deeper,  older,  fuller  of  mystery,  takes  its  place  ;  the 
instincts  assert  themselves,  and  I  am  dimly  con 
scious  of  an  elder  world  through  which  I  once 
walked — and  yet  not  I,  but  some  one  whose  mem 
ory  lies  back  of  my  memory,  as  the  farthest,  faint 
est  hills  fade  into  infinity  on  the  boundaries  of  the 
world.  I  am  ready  for  the  woods  now,  for  I  am 
escaping  the  limitations  of  my  own  personality, 
with  its  narrow  experience  and  its  short  memory, 
and  I  am  entering  into  consciousness  of  a  race  life 
and  dimly  surveying  the  records  of  a  race  memory. 
At  last  the  road  turns  abruptly  from  the  hillside 
to  which  it  clings  with  the  loyalty  of  ancient  asso 
ciation,  and,  running  straight  across  a  low-lying 
meadow,  enters  a  deep  wood,  and  vanishes  from 
sight  for  many  a  mile.  It  is  with  a  deep  sigh  of 
content  that  I  find  myself  once  more  in  that  dim 
wonderland  whose  mysteries  I  would  not  fathom  if 
I  could.  I  am  at  one  with  the  genius  of  the  place; 
I  have  escaped  customs,  habits,  conventions  of 
every  sort ;  the  false  growths  of  civilization  have 
fallen  away  and  left  me  in  primitive  strength  and 
freshness  once  more  ;  my  own  personality  disap- 


60  UNDER    THE    TREES, 

pears,  and  I  am  breathing  the  universal  life  ;  I 
have  gone  back  to  the  far  beginning  of  things,  and 
I  am  once  more  in  that  dim,  rich  moment  of  prime 
val  contact  with  Nature  out  of  which  all  mytholo 
gies  and  literatures  have  grown.  How  profound 
and  all-embracing  is  the  silence,  and  yet  how  full  of 
inarticulate  sound  !  The  faint  whisperings  of  the 
leaves  touch  me  first  with  a  sense  of  melody,  and 
then,  later,  with  a  sense  of  mystery.  These  are  the 
most  venerable  voices  to  which  men  have  ever  lis 
tened  ;  and  when  I  think  of  the  immeasurable  life 
that  seems  to  be  groping  for  utterance  in  them,  I 
remember  with  no  consciousness  of  skepticism 
that  these  are  the  voices  which  men  once  waited 
upon  as  oracles  ;  nay,  rather,  wait  upon  still ;  for  am 
I  not  now  listening  for  the  word  which  shall  speak 
to  me  out  of  these  shadowy  depths  and  this  mys 
terious  antique  life  ?  I  am  ready  to  listen  and  to 
follow  if  only  these  vagrant  sounds  shall  blend  into 
one  clear  note  and  declare  to  me  that  secret  which 
they  have  kept  so  well  through  the  centuries.  I 
wait  expectant,  as  I  have  waited  so  often  before  ; 
there  is  unbroken  stillness,  then  a  faint  murmur 
slowly  rising  and  spreading  until  I  am  sure  that  the 
moment  of  revelation  has  come,  then  a  slow  reces 
sion  back  to  silence.  I  am  not  discouraged  ;  sooner 
or  later  that  multitudinous  rustle  of  the  wild  woods 
will  break  into  clear-voiced  speech.  I  am  sure,  too, 
that  some  great  movement  of  life  is  about  to  dis 
play  itself  before  me.  Is  not  this  hush  the  sudden 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS.      61 

stillness  of  those  whom  I  have  surprised  and  who 
have,  on  the  instant,  sprung  to  their  coverts  and 
are  waiting  impatiently  until  I  have  gone,  to  re 
sume  their  interrupted  frolic  !  I  have  often 
watched  and  waited  here  before  in  vain,  but  surely 
to-day  I  shall  beguile  these  hidden  folk  into  revela 
tion  of  that  wonderful  life  they  have  suddenly 
suspended  !  So  I  throw  myself  at  the  foot  of  a 
great  pine,  and  wait ;  the  minutes  move  slowly 
across  the  unseen  dial  of  the  day,  and  I  have  be 
come  so  still  and  motionless  that  I  am  part  of  this 
secluded  world.  The  sun  shines  abroad,  but  I  have 
forgotten  it;  there  are  clouds  passing  all  day  in  their 
aerial  journeyings,  but  they  cast  no  shadow  over 
me  ;  even  the  flight  of  the  hours  is  unnoticed. 
Eternity  might  come  and  I  should  be  no  wiser,  I 
should  see  no  change  ;  for  does  it  not  already  hold 
these  vast  dim  aisles  and  solitudes  within  its 
peaceful  empire  ?  And  is  there  not  here  the  slow 
procession  of  birth,  decay,  and  death,  in  that  sub 
lime  order  of  growth  which  we  call  immortality  ? 

I  wait  and  watch,  and  I  can  wait  forever  if  need 
be.  Suddenly  from  the  depths  of  the  forest  there 
comes  a  note  of  penetrating  sweetness,  wild,  magi 
cal,  ethereal ;  I  slowly  raise  myself  and  wait. 
Surely  this  is  the  signal,  and  in  a  moment  I  shall 
see  the  dim  spaces  between  the  trees  peopled  and 
animate.  There  is  a  moment's  pause,  and  then 
again  that  strange,  mysterious  song  rings  through 
the  listening  forest.  It  touches  me  like  a  sudden 


62  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

revelation  ;  I  forget  that  for  which  I  have  waited  ; 
I  only  know  that  the  woods  have  found  their  voice, 
and  that  I  have  fallen  upon  the  sacred  hour  when 
the  song  is  a  prayer.  Who  shall  describe  that  wild, 
strange  music  of  the  hermit-thrush  ?  Who  will 
ever  hear  it  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  without  a 
sudden  thrill  of  joy  and  a  sudden  sense  of  pathos  ? 
It  is  a  note  apart  from  the  symphony  to  which  the 
summer  has  moved  across  the  fields  and  homes  of 
men  ;  it  has  no  kinship  with  those  flooding,  liquid 
melodies  which  poured  from  feathered  throats 
through  the  long  golden  days  ;  there  is  a  strain  in 
it  that  was  never  caught  under  blue  skies  and  in 
the  safe  nesting  of  the  familiar  fields  ;  it  is  the 
voice  of  solitude  suddenly  breaking  into  sound  ;  it 
is  the  speech  of  that  other  world  so  near  our  doors, 
and  yet  removed  from  us  by  uncounted  centuries 
and  unexplored  experiences. 

The  spell  of  silence  has  been  broken,  and  I  ven 
ture  softly  toward  the  hidden  fountain  from  which 
this  unworldly  song  has  flowed  ;  but  I  am  too  slow 
and  too  late,  and  it  remains  to  me  a  disembodied 
voice  singing  the  "old,  familiar  things  "  of  a  past 
which  becomes  more  and  more  distinct  as  I  linger 
in  the  shadows  of  this  ancient  place.  As  I.  walk 
slowly  on,  there  grows  upon  me  the  sense  of  a  life 
which  for  the  most  part  makes  no  sound,  and  is  all 
the  deeper  and  richer  because  it  is  inarticulate. 
The  very  thought  of  speech  or  companionship  jars 
upon  me  ;  silence  alone  is  possible  for  such  hours 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS.      &3 

and  moods.  The  great  movement  of  life  which 
builds  these  mighty  trunks  and  sends  the  vital  cur 
rents  to  their  highest  branches,  which  alternately 
clothes  and  denudes  them,  makes  no  sound  ;  cycle 
after  cycle  have  the  completed  centuries  made,  and 
yet  no  sign  of  waning  power  here,  no  evidence  of  a 
finished  work  !  Here  life  first  dawned  upon  men  ; 
here,  slowly,  it  discovered  its  meaning  to  them  ; 
here  the  first  impressions  fell  upon  senses  keen 
with  desire  for  untried  sensations  ;  here  the  first 
great  thoughts,  vast  as  the  forest  and  as  shadowy, 
moved  slowly  on  toward  conscious  clearness  in 
minds  that  were  just  beginning  to  think  ;  here  and 
not  elsewhere  are  the  roots  of  those  earliest  con 
ceptions  of  Nature  and  Life,  which  again  and  again 
have  come  to  such  glorious  blossoming  in  the  liter 
atures  of  the  race.  This  is,  in  a  word,  the  world  of 
primal  instinct  and  impression  ;  and,  therefore,  for 
ever  the  deepest,  most  familiar,  and  yet  most  mar 
velous  world  to  which  men  may  come  in  all  their 
wanderings. 

As  these  thoughts  come  and  go,  unclothed  with 
words  and  unsought  by  will,  I  grasp  again  the  deep 
truth  that  the  truest  life  is  unconscious  and  almost 
voiceless  ;  that  there  is  no  rich,  true,  articulate  life 
unless  there  flows  under  it  a  wide,  deep  current  of 
unspoken,  almost  unconscious,  thought  and  feeling; 
that  the  best  one  ever  says  or  does  is  as  a  few 
drops  flung  into  the  sunlight  from  a  swift,  hidden 
stream,  and  shining  for  a  moment  as  they  fall 


64  UNDER    THE    TREES, 

again  into  a  current  inaudible  and  invisible.  The 
intellectual  life  that  is  all  expressed,  that  is  all  con 
scious  and  self-directed,  is  but  a  shallow  life  at 
best  ;  he  only  lives  deeply  in  the  intellect  whose 
thought  begins  in  instinct,  rises  slowly  through  ex 
perience,  carrying  with  it  into  consciousness  the 
noblest,  truest  one  has  felt  and  been,  and  finds 
speech  at  last  by  impulse  and  direction  of  the  same 
law  which  summons  the  seed  from  the  soil  and  lifts 
it,  growth  by  growth,  to  the  beauty  and  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  flower.  Under  the  same  law  of  uncon 
scious  growth  every  true  poem,  every  great  work 
of  art,  and  every  genuine  noble  character,  has  fash 
ioned  itself  and  come  at  last  to  conscious  perfect- 
ness  and  recognition.  Genius  is  nearer  Nature 
than  talent ;  it  is  only  when  it  strays  away  from 
Nature,  and  loses  itself  in  mere  dexterities,  that  it 
degenerates  into  skill  and  becomes  a  tool  with 
which  to  work,  and  not  a  gift  from  heaven.  The 
silence  of  the  deep  woods  is  pregnant  with  mighty 
growths.  Says  Maurice  de  Guerin,  true  poet  and 
lover  of  Nature  :  "  An  innumerable  generation 
actually  hangs  on  the  branches  of  all  the  trees,  on 
the  fibers  of  the  most  insignificant  grasses,  like 
babes  on  the  mother's  breast.  All  these  germs,  in 
calculable  in  their  number  and  variety,  are  there 
suspended  in  their  cradle  between  heaven  and 
earth,  and  given  over  to  the  winds,  whose 
charge  it  is  to  rock  these  beings.  Unseen  amid 
the  living  forests  swing  the  forests  of  the  future. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS,      65 

Nature  is  all  absorbed  in  the  vast  cares  of  her 
maternity." 

But  while  I  walk  and  meditate,  letting  the  forest 
tell  its  story  to  my  innermost  thought,  and  recalling 
here  only  that  which  is  most  obvious  and  superficial 
(who  is  sufficient  for  the  deeper  things  that  lie  like 
pearls  in  the  depths  of  his  being  ?),  the  light  grows 
dimmer,  and  I  know  that  the  day  has  gone.  I  re 
trace  my  steps  until  through  the  clustered  trunks 
of  the  trees  I  see  once  more  the  green  meadows 
soft  in  the  light  of  sunset.  As  I  pass  over  the 
boundary  line  of  the  forest  once  more,  faint  and  far 
the  song  of  the  thrush  searches  the  wood,  and, 
finding  me,  leaves  its  ethereal  note  in  my  memory — 
a  note  wild  as  the  forest,  and  thrilling  into  momen 
tary  consciousness  I  know  not  what  forgotten  ages 
of  awe  and  wonder  and  worship. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

BESIDE      THE      RIVER. 

ALL  day  long  the  river  has  moved  through  my 
thought  as  it  rolls  through  the  landscape  spread 
out  at  my  feet.  There  it  lies,  winding  for  many  a 
mile  within  the  boundaries  of  this  noble  outlook  ; 
by  day  flecked  with  sails  approaching  and  receding, 
and  at  night  shining  under  the  full  moon  like  a 
girdle  of  silver,  clasping  mountains  and  broad 
meadow  lands  in  a  varied  but  harmonious  land 
scape.  From  the  point  at  which  I  look  out  upon 
its  long  course,  the  stream  has  a  setting  worthy  of 
its  volume  and  its  history.  In  the  distant  back 
ground  a  mountain  range,  of  noble  altitude  and 
outline,  has  to-day  an  ethereal  strength  and  splen 
dor  ;  a  slight  haze  has  obliterated  all  details,  and 
left  the  great  hills  soft  and  dreamlike  in  the  Sep 
tember  sunshine  ;  at  first  sight  one  waits  to  see 
them  vanish,  but  they  remain,  wrought  upon  by  sun 
light  and  atmosphere,  until  the  twilight  touches 
them  with  purple  and  night  turns  them  into  mighty 
shadows.  On  either  hand,  in  the  middle  ground  of 
the  picture,  long  lines  of  hills  shut  the  river  within 
a  world  of  its  own,  and  shelter  the  green  meadows, 
the  fallow  fields,  and  the  stretches  of  woodland 
66 


BESIDE    THE  RIVER.  67 

that  cover  the  broad  sweep  from  the  river's  edge  to 
their  own  bases.  Below  me  the  quiet  current  enters 
the  heart  of  another  group  of  mountains,  flowing 
silently  between  the  precipitous  and  rocky  heights 
that  lift  themselves  on  either  hand,  indifferent 
alike  to  the  frowning  summits  when  the  sun  warms 
them  with  smiles,  and  to  the  black  and  portentous 
shadows  which  they  often  cast  across  the  channel 
at  their  feet.  The  solitude  and  awe  which  belong 
to  mountain  passes  through  which  great  rivers  flow 
clothe  this  place  with  solemnity  and  majesty  as  with 
a  visible  garment,  and  fill  one  with  a  sense  of  inde 
scribable  awe. 

The  river  which  lies  before  me  moves  through  a 
mist  of  legend  and  tradition  as  well  as  through  a 
landscape  of  substantial  history.  It  has  been  called 
an  epical  river  because  of  the  varied  and  sustained 
beauty  through  which  it  sweeps  from  its  mountain 
sources  to  the  sea  ;  but  as  I  turn  from  it,  and  the 
visible  loveliness  of  its  banks  fades  from  sight,  I 
recall  that  other  landscape  of  history  and  legend 
through  which  it  rolls,  and  that,  for  the  moment,  is 
the  reality,  and  the  other  the  shadow.  A  web  of 
human  associations  spreads  itself  over  this  long 
valley  like  a  richer  atmosphere  ;  the  fields  are  ripe 
with  action  and  achievement  ;  every  projecting 
point  has  its  story,  every  gentle  curve  and  quiet 
inlet  its  memory  ;  for  many  and  many  a  decade  of 
years  life  has  touched  this  silent  stream  and  human 
ized  its  power  and  beauty  until  it  has  become  part 


68  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

of  the  vast  human  experience  wrought  out  between 
these  mountain  boundaries.  As  I  think  of  these 
things  and  of  the  world  of  dear  past  things  which 
they  recall,  another  great  river  sweeps  into  the 
vision  of  memory,  but  how  different  !  There  comes 
with  it  no  warmth  of  human  emotion,  but  only  the 
breath  of  the  unbroken  woods,  the  awful  aspect  of 
the  great,  precipitous  cliffs,  the  vast  solitude  out  of 
which  it  rolls,  with  troubled  current,  to  mingle  its 
mysterious  waters  with  the  northern  gulf.  It  is  a 
stream  which  Nature  still  keeps  for  herself,  and 
suffers  no  division  of  ownership  with  men;  a  stream 
as  wild  and  solitary  as  the  remote  and  unpeopled 
land  through  which  it  moves.  This  river,  on  the 
other  hand,  bears  every  hour  the  wealth  of  a  great 
inland  commerce  upon  its  wide  current  ;  it  flows 
past  cities  and  villages  scattered  thickly  along  its 
course,  past  countless  homes  whose  lights  weave  a 
shining  net  along  its  banks  at  night;  on  still  Sab 
bath  mornings  the  bells  answer  each  other  in  almost 
unbroken  peal  along  its  course.  Emerging  from 
an  unknown  past  in  the  earliest  days  of  discovery, 
human  interests  have  steadily  multiplied  along  its 
shores,  and  spread  over  it  the  countless  lines  of 
human  activity.  To-day  the  Argo,  multiplied  a 
thousand  times,  seeks  the  golden  fleece  of  com 
merce  at  every  point  along  its  shores  ;  and  of  the 
countless  Jasons  who  make  the  voyage  few  return 
empty-handed.  Hour  after  hour  the  white  sails  fly 
in  mysterious  and  changing  lines,  messengers  of 


BESIDE    THE  RIVER.  69 

wealth  and  trade  and  pleasure,  whose  voyages  are 
no  sooner  ended  than  they  begin  again.  It  is  this 
wealth  of  action  and  achievement  which  make  the 
names  of  great  rivers  sonorous  as  the  voices  of  the 
centuries  ;  the  Nile,  the  Danube,  the  Rhine,  the 
Hudson — how  weighty  are  these  words  with  asso 
ciations  old  as  history  and  deep  as  the  human 
heart ! 

The  rivers  are  the  great  channels  through  which 
the  ceaseless  interchange  of  the  elements  goes  on  ; 
they  unite  the  heart  of  the  continents  and  the  soli 
tary  places  of  the  mountains  with  the  universal  sea 
which  washes  all  shores  and  beats  its  melancholy 
refrain  at  either  pole.  Into  their  currents  the  hills 
and  uplands  pour  their  streams  ;  to  them  the  little 
rivulets  come  laughing  and  singing  down  from 
their  sources  in  the  forest  depths.  A  drop  falling 
from  a  passing  shower  into  the  lake  of  Delolo  may 
be  carried  eastward,  through  the  Zambesi,  to  the 
Indian  Ocean,  or  westward,  along  the  transcon 
tinental  course  of  the  Congo,  to  the  Atlantic.  The 
mists  that  rise  from  great  streams,  separated  by 
vast  stretches  of  territory,  commingle  in  the  upper 
air,  and  are  carried  by  vagrant  winds  to  the  wheat- 
fields  of  the  far  Northwest  or  the  rice-fields  of  the 
South.  The  ocean  ceaselessly  makes  the  circuit  of 
the  globe,  and  summons  its  tributaries  along  all 
shores  to  itself.  But  it  gives  even  more  lavishly  than 
it  receives;  day  and  night  there  rise  over  its  vast  ex 
panse  those  invisible  clouds  of  moisture  which  dif- 


70  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

fuse  themselves  through  the  atmosphere,  and  de 
scend  at  last  upon  the  earth  to  pour,  sooner  or  later, 
into  the  rivers,  and  be  returned  whence  they  came. 
This  subtle  commerce,  universal  throughout  the 
whole  domain  of  nature,  animate  and  inanimate,  tells 
us  a  common  truth  with  the  rose,  and  corrects  the 
false  report  of  the  senses  that  all  things  are  fixed  and 
isolated.  It  discloses  a  communion  of  matter  with 
matter,  a  fellowship  of  continent  with  continent,  an 
interchange  of  forces  which  throws  a  broad  light  on 
things  still  deeper  and  more  marvelous.  It  affirms 
the  unity  of  all  created  things  and  predicts  the  dawn 
of  a  new  thought  of  the  kinship  of  races;  there  is  in 
it  the  prophecy  of  new  insights  into  the  universal 
life  of  men,  of  fellowships  that  shall  rise  to  the  re 
cognition  of  new  duties,  and  of  a  well-being  which 
shall  bind  the  weakest  to  the  strongest,  the  poorest 
to  the  richest,  the  lowest  to  the  highest,  by  the 
golden  bond  of  a  diviner  love. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

AT    THE    SPRING. 

THE  path  across  the  fields  is  so  well  worn  that 
one  can  find  his  way  along  its  devious  course  by 
night  almost  as  easily  as  by  day.  I  have  gone  over 
it  at  all  hours,  and  have  never  returned  without 
some  fresh  and  cheering  memory  for  other  and  less 
favored  days.  The  fields  across  which  it  leads 
one,  with  the  unfailing  suggestion  of  something 
better  beyond,  are  undulating  and  dotted  here  and 
there  with  browsing  cattle.  The  landscape  is  full 
of  pastoral  repose  and  charm — the  charm  of  familiar 
things  that  are  touched  with  old  memories,  and 
upon  whose  natural  beauty  there  rests  the  reflected 
light  of  days  that  have  become  idyllic.  No  one 
can  walk  along  a  country  road,  over  which  as  a  boy 
he  heard  the  daily  invitation  of  the  schoolhouse 
bell  without  discovering  at  every  turn  some  love 
liness  never  revealed  save  to  the  glance  of  unfor- 
gotten  youth.  The  path  which  leads  to  the  spring 
has  this  unfailing  charm  for  me,  and  for  many  who 
have  long  ceased  to  follow  its  winding  course.  At 
this  season  it  is  touched  here  and  there  by  the 
autumnal  splendor,  and  fairly  riots  in  the  profusion 
of  the  golden-rod,  whose  yellow  plumes  are  lighting 
7i 


72  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

the  retreating  steps  of  summer  across  the  fields. 
Great  masses  of  brilliant  woodbine  cover  the  stone 
walls  and  hang  from  the  trees  along  the  fences. 
The  corn,  cut  and  stacked  in  orderly  lines,  is  not 
without  its  transforming  touch  of  color  ;  and  while 
the  trees  still  wait  for  the  coronation  of  the  year 
Nature  seems  to  have  passed  along  this  path  and 
turned  it  into  a  royal  highway.  As  it  approaches 
the  woods,  one  gets  glimpses  of  the  village  spires  in 
the  distance,  and  find  a  new  charm  in  this  border 
land  between  sunlight  and  shadow,  between  solitude 
and  the  companionship  of  human  life.  A  little  dis 
tance  along  the  edges  of  the  woods,  with  an  oc 
casional  detour  of  the  path  into  the  shades  of  the 
forest,  brings  one  to  the  spring.  A  great,  rudely- 
cut  stone  marks  the  place,  and  makes  a  kind  of 
background  for  the  cool,  limpid  pool  into  which  a 
few  leaves  fall  from  the  woods,  but  which  belongs 
to  the  open  sky  and  fields.  There  is  certainly  no 
more  gentle,  reposeful  scene  than  this ;  so  secluded 
from  the  dust  and  whirl  of  cities  and  thoroughfares, 
and  yet  so  near  to  ancient  homes,  so  sweet  and  life- 
giving  in  its  service  to  them,  so  often  and  so 
eagerly  sought  at  all  seasons  and  by  men  of  all 
conditions.  Here  oftenest  come  the  restless  feet 
of  children,  and  their  shouts  are  almost  the  only 
sounds  that  ever  break  this  solitude. 

To  me  there  is  something  inexpressibly  sweet 
and  refreshing  in  the  familiar  and  yet  unfailing 
loveliness  of  this  place.  The  fields  are  air/ays 


AT    THE   SPRING.  73 

peaceful,  and  the  slow  motions  of  the  cattle  grouped 
here  and  there  under  the  shadows  of  solitary  trees, 
or  of  the  sheep  browsing  in  long,  irregular  lines 
across  the  further  meadows,  give  the  landscape 
that  touch  of  pastoral  life  which  unites  us  with 
Nature  in  the  oldest  and  most  homelike  relations. 
Here,  on  still  summer  afternoons,  one  seems  to 
have  come  upon  a  sleeping  world ;  a  world  over 
whose  slumber  the  clouds  are  passing  like  peace 
ful  dreams.  In  such  an  hour  the  limpid  water  of 
the  spring  seems  to  rise  out  of  the  very  heart  of 
the  earth,  and  to  bring  with  it  an  unfailing  refresh 
ment  of  spirit.  The  white  sand  through  which  it 
finds  its  way  makes  its  transparent  clearness  more 
apparent,  and  the  great  stone  seems  to  hold  back 
the  woods  from  an  approach  that  would  overshadow 
it.  It  rises  so  silently  into  the  visible  world  from 
the  unseen  depths  that  one  cannot  but  feel  some 
illusion  of  sentiment  thrown  over  it,  some  dis 
closure  of  truth  escaping  with  it  from  the  darkness 
beneath.  Whence  does  it  flow,  and  what  has  its 
journey  been  ?  Did  some  remote  mountain  range 
gather  its  waters  from  the  clouds  and  send  them 
down  through  long  and  winding  channels  deep  in 
its  heart?  Is  there  far  below  an  invisible  stream 
flowing,  like  the  river  Alphseus,  unseen  and  un 
heard  beneath  the  earth  ?  The  spring  is  mute 
when  these  questions  rise  to  lips  which  it  is  always 
ready  to  moisten  from  its  cool  depths.  It  is 


74  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

enough  that  in  this  quiet  place  the  bounty  of 
Nature  never  ceases  to  overflow,  and  that  here  she 
holds  out  the  cup  of  refreshment  with  royal  indif 
ference  to  gratitude  or  neglect.  Here  she  ministers 
to  every  comer  as  if  her  whole  life  were  a  service. 
One  forgets  that  behind  this  cup  of  cold  water,  held 
out  to  the  humblest,  there  sweep  sublime  powers, 
and  that  the  same  hand  which  serves  him  here 
moves  in  their  courses  the  planets,  whose  faint  re 
flections  shine  in  this  silent  pool  by  night. 

Springs  have  been  natural  centers  of  life  from  the 
earliest  times.  Deep  in  the  solitude  of  forests,  or 
fringed  with  foliage  in  the  heart  of  deserts,  they 
have  alike  served  the  needs  and  appealed  to  the 
sentiment  of  men.  Around  the  wells  cluster  the 
most  venerable  associations  of  the  ancient  patri 
archal  families  ;  the  beautiful  pastoral  life  of  the 
Old  Testament,  full  of  deep,  unwritten  poetry,  dis 
covers  no  scenes  more  characteristic  and  touching 
than  those  which  were  enacted  beside  these  sources 
of  fertility.  Green  and  fruitful  in  the  memory  of 
the  most  sacred  history  repose  these  cool,  refresh 
ing  pools  under  the  burning  glance  of  the  tropical 
sun.  Here,  too,  as  in  those  distant  lands,  life  is 
kept  in  constant  freshness  around  the  borders  of 
the  spring.  The  grass  grows  green  and  dense  here 
the  whole  summer  through,  and  here  there  is  always 
a  breath  of  cooler  air  when  the  fields  glow  with  in 
tense  heat.  In  such  places  Nature  waits  to  touch 


AT   THE   SPRING.  75 

the  fevered  spirit  with  something  of  her  own  peace, 
and  to  keep  alive  forever  in  the  hearts  of  men  that 
faith  in  things  unseen  which  rises  like  a  spring 
from  the  depths,  and  makes  a  center  of  fruitful  and 
beautiful  life. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

ON     THE     HEIGHTS. 

NATURE  creates  days  for  special  insights  and 
outlooks — days  whose  distinctive  qualities  make 
them  part  of  the  universal  revelation  of  the  year. 
There  are  days  for  the  deep  woods,  and  for  the 
open  fields  ;  days  for  the  beach,  and  for  the  inland 
river  ;  days  for  solitary  musing  beside  some  se 
cluded  rivulet,  and  days  for  the  companionship 
and  movement  of  the  highways.  Each  day  is 
fitted  by  some  subtle  magic  of  adaptation  to  the 
place  and  the  aspect  of  nature  which  it  is  to  reveal 
with  a  clearness  denied  to  other  hours.  There 
came  such  a  day  not  long  ago  to  me  ;  a  day  of 
tonic  atmosphere — clear,  cloudless,  inspiring;  there 
was  no  audible  invitation  in  the  air,  but  I  knew  by 
some  instinct  that  the  day  and  the  mountains  were 
parts  of  one  complete  whole.  The  morning  itself 
was  a  new  birth  of  nature,  full  of  promise  and 
prophecy ;  one  of  those  hours  in  which  only  the 
greatest  and  noblest  things  are  credible,  in  which 
one  rejects  unfaith  and  doubt  and  all  lesser  and 
meaner  things  as  dreams  of  a  night  from  which 
there  has  come  an  eternal  awakening  ;  a  day  such 
as  Emerson  had  in  thought  when  he  wrote  :  "  The 
76 


ON   THE  HEIGHTS.  77 

scholar  must  look  long  for  the  right  hour  for  Plato's 
Timseus.  At  last  the  elect  morning  arrives,  the 
early  dawn — a  few  lights  conspicuous  in  the  heaven, 
as  of  a  world  just  created  and  still  becoming — and 
in  its  wide  leisure  we  dare  open  that  book.  There 
are  days  when  the  great  are  near  us,  when  there  is 
no  frown  on  their  brow,  no  condescension  even  ; 
when  they  take  us  by  the  hand,  and  we  share  their 
thought."  When  such  a  morning  dawns,  one  de 
mands,  by  right  of  his  own  nature,  the  pilotage  of 
great  thoughts  to  some  height  whence  the  whole 
world  will  lie  before  him  ;  one  knows  by  unclouded 
insight  that  life  is  greater  than  all  his  dreams,  and 
that  he  is  heir,  not  only  of  the  centuries,  but  of 
eternity. 

Such  days  belong  to  the  mountains  ;  and  when  I 
opened  my  window  on  this  morning,  I  was  in  no 
doubt  as  to  the  invitation  held  forth  by  earth  and 
sky.  There  was  exhilaration  in  the  very  thought 
of  the  long  climb,  and  at  an  early  hour  I  was  fast 
leaving  the  village  behind  me.  The  road  skirted 
the  base  of  the  mountain,  and  struck  at  once  into  the 
heart  of  the  wilderness,  which  the  clustering  peaks 
have  preserved  from  any  but  the  most  fleeting  asso 
ciations  with  the  peopled  world  around.  A  barrier 
of  ancient  silence  and  solitude  soon  separated  me 
even  in  thought  from  the  familiar  scenes  I  had  left. 
A  virginal  beauty  rested  upon  the  road,  and  sank 
deep  into  my  own  heart  as  I  passed  along  ;  to  be 
silent  and  open-minded  was  enough  to  bring  one  into 


78  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

fellowship  with  the  hour  and  the  scene.  The  clear, 
bracing  air,  the  rustling  of  leaves  slowly  sifting 
down  through  the  lower  branches,  the  solemn 
quietude,  rilled  the  morning  with  a  deep  joy  that 
touched  the  very  sources  of  life,  and  made  them 
sweet  in  every  thought  and  emotion.  It  was  like  a 
new  beginning  in  the  old,  old  story  of  time  ;  the 
stains  of  ancient  wrong,  the  blights  of  sorrow,  the 
wrecks  of  hope,  were  gone  ;  sweet  with  the  untrod 
den  freshness  of  a  new  day  lay  the  earth,  and 
looked  up  to  the  heavens  with  a  gaze  as  pure  and 
calm  as  their  own.  Somehow  all  life  seemed  sub 
limated  in  that  golden  sunshine  ;  the  grosser 
elements  had  vanished,  the  material  had  become 
the  transparent  medium  of  the  spiritual,  the  dis 
cords  had  blended  into  harmony,  and  one  would 
have  heard  without  surprise  the  faint,  far  song  of 
the  stars.  The  whole  world  was  one  vast  articulate 
poem,  and  human  life  added  its  own  strain  of  pene 
trating  sweetness.  At  last,  after  all  these  years  of 
struggle  and  failure,  one  was  really  living  ! 

The  road,  slowly  ascending  the  long  wooded 
slope,  wound  its  way  through  the  forest  until  it 
brought  me  to  the  mountain  path  which  climbs, 
with  many  a  halt  and  pause,  to  the  very  summit. 
Dense  foliage  overshadows  it,  a  little  thinner  now 
that  the  hand  of  autumn  has  begun  to  disrobe  the 
trees.  Great  rocks  often  lie  in  the  course  of  the 
path  and  send  it  in  a  narrow  curve  around  them. 
Sometimes  one  comes  upon  a  bold  ascent  up  the 


ON   THE  HEIGHTS.  79 

face  of  a  projecting  cliff ;  sometimes  one  plunges 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  shadows  as  they  gather 
over  the  rocky  channel  of  the  brook  that  later  will 
run  foaming  down  to  the  valley.  Step  by  step  one 
widens  his  horizon,  although  it  is  only  at  intervals 
that  he  is  able  to  note  his  progress  upward.  At 
the  base  of  the  mountain  one  saw  only  a  circle  of 
hills,  and  the  long  sweep  of  wooded  slopes  which 
converge  in  the  valley  ;  gradually  the  horizon 
widens  as  one  climbs  beyond  the  summit  lines  of 
the  lower  hills  ;  at  turns  in  the  path,  where  it 
crosses  some  rocky  declivity,  one  looks  out  upon  a 
landscape  into  which  some  new  feature  enters  with 
every  new  outlook;  one  range  of  hills  after  another 
sinks  below  the  level  of  vision,  and  discloses  another 
strip  of  undiscovered  country  beyond  ;  and  so  one 
climbs,  step  by  step,  into  the  glory  of  a  new  world. 
The  solitude,  the  silence,  the  radiant  beauty  of  the 
morning,  the  expanding  sweep  of  hills  and  valleys 
at  one's  feet,  fill  one  with  eager  longing  for  the  un 
broken  circle  of  sky  at  the  summit,  and  prepare  one 
for  the  thrill  of  joy  with  which  the  soul  answers 
the  outspread  vision. 

At  last  only  a  few  rocks  interpose  between  the 
summit  and  the  last  resting-place.  I  wait  a  mo 
ment  longer  than  I  need,  as  one  pushes  back  for 
an  instant  the  cup  from  which  he  has  long  desired 
to  drink.  I  even  shun  the  noble  vistas  that  open 
on  either  side,  postponing  to  the  moment  of  perfect 
achievement  the  partial  successes  already  won. 


8o  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

But  the  rocks  are  soon  climbed,  the  summit  is 
reached  !  The  world  is  at  my  feet — the  mountain 
ranges  like  great  billows,  and  the  valleys,  deep,  far, 
and  shadowy,  between;  and  overhead  the  unbroken 
arch  of  sky  melting  into  illimitable  space  through 
infinite  gradations  of  blue.  The  vision  which  has 
haunted  me  so  long  with  illusive  hints  of  range 
and  splendor  is  mine  at  last,  and  I  have  no  greet 
ing  for  it  but  the  breathless  eagerness  with  which  I 
turn  from  point  to  point,  as  if  to  drink  all  in  with 
one  compelling  glance.  But  the  landscape  does 
not  yield  its  infinite  variety  to  the  first  nor  to  the 
second  glance  ;  the  agitation  of  the  first  outlook 
gives  place  to  a  deep,  calm  joy;  the  eager  desire  to 
possess  on  the  instant  what  has  been  won  by  long 
toil  and  patience  is  followed  by  a  quiet  mood  which 
banishes  all  thought  of  self,  and  waits  upon  the 
hour  and  the  scene  for  the  revelation  they  will 
make  in  their  own  good  time.  Slowly  the  noble 
landscape  reveals  itself  to  me  in  its  vast  range  and 
its  marvelous  variety.  The  somber  groups  of 
mountains  to  the  west  become  distinct  and  majestic 
as  I  look  into  their  deep  recesses  ;  far  off  to  the 
north  the  massive  bulk  and  impressive  outlines  of 
a  solitary  peak  grow  upon  me  until  it  seems  to 
dominate  the  whole  country-side.  A  kingly  mount 
ain  truly,  of  whose  "  night  of  pines  "  our  saintly 
poet  has  sung;  from  this  distance  a  vast  and  soft 
ened  shadow  against  the  stainless  sky.  To  the 
east  one  sees  the  long  uplands,  with  slender  spires 


ON   THE  HEIGHTS.  81 

rising  here  and  there  from  clustered  homes ;  to  the 
south,  a  vast  stretch  of  fertile  fields,  rolling  like  a 
fruitful  sea  to  the  horizon  ;  within  the  mighty 
circle,  groups  of  lower  hills,  wooded  valleys  shad 
owy  and  mysterious  in  the  distance,  villages  and 
scattered  homes. 

It  was  a  deep  saying  of  Goethe's  that  "  on  every 
height  there  lies  repose."  A  Sabbath  stillness  and 
solemnity  reign  in  this  upper  sphere,  where  the 
sound  of  human  toil  never  comes  and  the  cry  of 
humanity  never  penetrates.  The  boundaries  that 
confine  and  baffle  the  vision  along  the  walks  of 
ordinary  life  have  all  faded  out ;  great  States  lie 
together  in  this  outlook  without  visible  lines  of 
division  or  separation.  The  obstacles  to  sight 
which  hourly  baffle  and  confuse  are  gone  ;  from 
horizon  to  horizon  all  things  are  clear  and  visible, 
and  the  world  is  vast  and  beautiful  to  its  remotest 
boundaries.  The  repose  which  lies  on  the  heights 
of  life  is  born  of  the  vast  and  unclouded  vision 
which  looks  down  upon  all  obstacles,  over  all  bar 
riers,  and  takes  in  at  a  glance  the  mighty  scope  of 
human  activity  and  the  unbroken  sky  which  over 
hangs  it  continually  like  a  visible  infinity.  On 
such  heights  it  is  the  blessed  reward  of  a  few  elect 
souls  to  live  ;  but  the  paths  thither  are  open  to 
every  traveler. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

UNDER    COLLEGE    ELMS. 

STRETCHED  under  the  spreading  branches  of  this 
noble  elm,  which  has  seen  so  many  college  genera 
tions  come  and  go,  I  have  well-nigh  forgotten  that 
life  has  any  limitations  of  space  or  time  ;  work, 
anxiety,  weariness  fade  out  of  thought  under  a 
heaven  from  which  every  cloud  has  vanished,  and 
the  eye  pierces  everywhere  the  infinite  depths  of 
the  upper  firmament.  Days  are  not  always  radiant 
here,  and  the  stream  of  life  as  it  flows  through  this 
tranquil  valley  is  flecked  with  shadows  ;  but  all 
sweet  influences  have  combined  to  touch  this  pass 
ing  hour  with  unspeakable  peace.  Here  are  the 
old  familiar  footpaths  trodden  so  often  with  hurry 
ing  feet  in  other  years  ;  here  are  the  well-worn 
seats  about  which  familiar  groups  have  so  often 
gathered  and  sent  the  echoes  of  their  songs  flying 
heavenward  ;  here  are  the  rooms  which  will  never 
lose  the  sense  of  home  because  of  those  who  have 
lived  in  them.  The  chapel  bell  tolls  as  of  old,  and 
the  crowd  comes  hurrying  along  like  the  genera 
tions  before  them,  but  the  eye  sees  no  familiar  faces 
among  them.  It  is  a  place  of  intense  and  rich 
living,  and  yet  to-day,  and  for  me,  it  is  a  place  of 
82 


UNDER    COLLEGE  ELMS.  83 

memory.  The  life  once  lived  here  is  as  truly 
finished  as  if  eternity  had  placed  the  impassable 
gulf  between  it  and  this  quiet  hour.  These  are  the 
shores  through  which  the  river  once  passed,  these 
the  green  fields  which  encircled  it,  these  the  mount 
ains  which  flung  their  shadows  over  it,  but  the  river 
itself  has  swept  leagues  onward. 

Mr.  Higginson  has  written  charmingly  about 
"  An  Old  Latin  Text-Book,"  and  there  is  surely 
something  magical  in  the  power  with  which  these 
well-worn  volumes  lay  their  spell  upon  us,  and 
carry  us  back  to  other  scenes  and  men.  I  have  a 
copy  of  Virgil  from  which  all  manner  of  old-time 
things  slip  out  as  I  open  its  pages.  The  eager  en 
thusiasm  of  the  first  dawning  appreciation  of  the 
undying  beauty  of  the  old  poet,  faintly  discerned 
in  the  language  which  embalms  it,  comes  back  like 
a  whiff  of  fragrance  from  some  by-gone  summer. 
The  potency  of  college  memories  lies  in  the  fact 
that  in  those  years  we  made  the  most  memorable 
discoveries  of  our  lives  ;  the  unknown  river  may 
widen  and  deepen  beyond  our  thought,  but  the 
most  noteworthy  moment  in  all  our  wanderings 
with  it  will  always  be  the  moment  when  we  first 
came  upon  it,  and  there  dawned  upon  us  the  sense 
of  something  new  and  great.  To  most  boys  this 
rich  and  never-to-be-forgotten  experience  comes  in 
college.  Except  in  cases  of  rare  good  fortune,  a 
boy  is  not  ripe  for  the  literary  spirit  in  the  classic 
literature  until  the  college  atmosphere  surrounds 


84  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

him.  To  many  it  never  discovers  itself  at  all,  and 
the  languages  which  were  dead  at  the  beginning  of 
study  are  dead  at  the  end  ;  but  to  those  in  whom 
the  instinct  of  scholarship  is  developed  there  comes 
a  day  when  Virgil  lives  as  truly  as  he  lived  in 
Dante's  imagination,  and,  like  Boccaccio,  they  light 
a  fire  at  his  tomb  which  years  do  not  quench. 

Who  that  has  ever  gone  through  the  experience 
will  forget  the  hour  when  he  discovered  the  Greeks 
in  Homer's  pages,  and  felt  for  the  first  time  the 
grand  impulse  of  that  noble  race  stir  his  blood  and 
fill  his  brain  with  the  far-reaching  aspiration  for  a 
life  as  rich  as  theirs  in  beauty,  freedom,  and 
strength  !  It  is  told  of  an  English  scholar  that  he 
devoted  his  winters  to  the  "  Iliad "  and  his  sum 
mers  to  the  "  Odyssey,"  reading  each  several  times 
every  year.  One  could  hardly  reconcile  such  self- 
indulgence  with  the  claims  of  to-day  on  every 
man's  time  and  strength  ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  all 
Grecians  have  a  secret  envy  for  such  a  career. 
The  Old-World  charm  of  the  "  Odyssey  "  is  one  of 
the  priceless  possessions  of  every  fresh  student, 
and  to  feel  it  for  the  first  time  is  like  discovering 
the  sea  anew.  It  is,  indeed,  the  Epic  of  the  Sea  ; 
the  only  poem  in  all  literature  which  gives  the 
breadth,  the  movement,  the  mighty  sweep  of  sky 
belted  with  stars,  the  unspeakable  splendors  of 
sunrise  and  sunset, — the  grand,  free  life  of  the  sea. 
I  would  place  the  "  Odyssey  "  in  every  collection 
of  modern  books  for  the  tonic  quality  that  is  in  it. 


UNDER   COLLEGE  ELMS.  85 

The  dash  of  wave  and  the  roar  of  wind  play  havoc 
with  our  melancholy,  and  fill  us  with  shame  that  we 
have  so  much  as  asked  the  question,  "  Is  Life 
Worth  Living  ?  " 

There  is  no  grander  entrance  gate  to  the  great 
world  of  thought  than  the  Greek  Literature.  Uni 
versities  are  broadening  their  courses  to  meet  the 
multiplied  demands  of  modern  knowledge  and  to 
fit  men  for  the  varied  pursuits  of  modern  life,  but 
for  those  who  desire  familiarity  with  human  life  in 
its  broadest  expression,  and  especially  for  those 
who  seek  familiarity  with  the  literary  spirit  and 
mastery  of  the  literary  art,  Greek  must  hold  its 
place  in  the  curriculum  to  the  end  of  time.  This 
implies  no  disparagement  of  our  own  literature — a 
literature  which  spreads  its  dome  over  a  wider 
world  of  feeling  and  knowledge  than  the  Greek  ever 
saw  within  the  horizon  of  his  experience  ;  but  the 
Greek,  like  the  Hebrew,  will  remain  to  the  latest 
generation  among  the  great  teachers  of  men.  He 
was  born  into  the  first  rank  among  nations ;  he 
had  an  eye  quick  to  see,  a  mind  clear,  open,  and 
bold  to  grasp  facts,  set  them  in  order,  and  general 
ize  their  law  ;  an  instinct  for  art  that  turned  all  his 
observation  and  thinking  into  literature.  Whether 
he  looked  at  the  world  about  him  or  fixed  his  gaze 
upon  his  own  nature,  his  insight  was  from  the  very 
beginning  so  direct,  so  commanding,  so  perfectly 
allied  with  beauty,  that  his  speculations  became 
philosophy  and  his  emotions  poetry.  There  was 


86  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

hardly  any  aspect  of  life  which  he  did  not  see,  no 
question  which  he  did  not  ask,  and  few  which  he 
failed  to  answer  with  more  or  less  of  truth.  He 
walked  through  an  untrodden  world  of  sights  and 
sounds,  and  reproduced  the  vast  circle  of  his  life 
in  a  literature  to  which  men  will  look  as  long  as 
the  world  stands  for  models  of  sweetness,  beauty, 
and  power.  Greek  literature  holds  its  place,  not 
because  scholars  have  combined  to  keep  alive  its 
traditions  and  make  familiarity  with  it  the  bond  of 
the  fellowship  of  culture,  but  because  it  is  the  faith 
ful  reflection  of  the  life  of  a  race  who  faced  the 
world  on  all  sides  with  masterly  intelligence  and 
power.  It  is  a  liberal  education  to  have  traveled 
from  yEschylus,  with  his  almost  Asiatic  splendor  of 
imagination,  to  Theocritus,  under  whose  exquisite 
touch  the  soft  outlines  of  Sicilian  life  took  on  idyl 
lic  loveliness ! 

And  then  there  were  those  unbroken  winter 
evenings,  when  one  began  really  to  know  the  great 
modern  masters  of  literature.  What  would  one  not 
give  to  have  them  back  again,  with  their  undis 
turbed  hours  ending  only  when  the  fire  or  the  lamp 
gave  out !  Those  were  nights  of  royal  fellowships, 
of  introduction  into  the  noblest  society  the  world 
has  ever  known,  and  it  is  the  recollection  of  this 
companionship  which  gives  those  days  under  col 
lege  roofs  a  unique  and  perennial  charm.  Then 
first  the  spirit  of  our  own  race  was  revealed  to  us 
in  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton ;  then  first  we 


UNDER    COLLEGE  ELMS.  87 

thrilled  to  that  music  which  has  never  faltered 
since  Casdmon  found  his  voice  in  answer  to  the 
heavenly  vision.  There  are  days  which  will  always 
have  a  place  by  themselves  in  our  memory,  nights 
whose  stars  have  never  set,  because  they  brought 
us  face  to  face  with  some  great  soul,  and  struck 
into  life  in  an  instant  some  new  and  mighty  mean 
ing.  The  ferment  of  soul  which  Hazlitt  describes 
on  the  night  when  he  walked  home  from  his  first 
talk  with  Coleridge  is  no  exceptional  experience  ; 
it  comes  to  most  young  men  who  are  susceptible  to 
the  influence  of  great  thoughts  coming  for  the  first 
time  into  consciousness.  A  lonely  country  road 
comes  into  view  as  I  write  these  words,  and  over 
it  the  heavens  bend  with  a  new  and  marvelous 
splendor,  because  the  boy  who  walked  along  its 
winding  course  had  just  finished  for  the  first  time, 
and  in  a  perfect  tumult  of  soul,  Schiller's  "  Rob 
bers";  it  was  the  power  of  a  great  master,  felt 
through  his  crudest  work,  that  filled  the  night  with 
such  magical  influences. 

The  hours  in  which  we  come  in  contact  with 
great  souls  are  always  memorable  in  our  history, 
often  the  crises  in  our  intellectual  life  ;  it  is  the 
recollection  of  such  hours  that  gives  those  bending 
elms  an  imperishable  charm,  and  lends  to  this  land 
scape  a  deathless  interest. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

A     SUMMER      MORNING. 

I  DO  not  understand  how  any  one  who  has 
watched  the  breaking  of  a  summer  day  can  question 
the  noblest  faiths  of  man.  William  Blake,  with 
that  integrity  of  insight  which  is  often  the  pos 
session  of  the  true  mystic,  declared  that  when  he 
was  asked  if  he  saw  anything  more  in  a  sunset  than 
a  round  disk  of  fire,  he  could  only  answer  that  he 
saw  an  innumerable  company  of  the  heavenly  host 
crying  "  Holy,  Holy,  Holy  Lord  God  Almighty  !  " 
The  birth  of  a  day  is  a  diviner  miracle  even  than 
its  death.  They  were  true  poets  who  wrote  the  old 
Vedic  hymns  and  sang  those  wonderful  adorations 
when  the  last  stars  were  fading  in  the  splendor  of 
the  dawn.  Beside  the  glory  of  the  sun's  announce 
ment  all  royal  progresses  are  tawdry  and  mean  ; 
beside  the  beauty  of  the  dawn,  slowly  unveiling  the 
day  while  the  heavens  wait  in  silent  worship,  all 
poetry  is  idle  and  empty.  It  is  the  divinest  of  all 
the  visible  processes  of  nature^nd  the  sublimest 
of  all  her  marvelous  symbolism. 

On  such  a  morning  as  this,  twelve  years  ago, 
Amiel  wrote  in  his  diary  :  "  The  whole  atmosphere 
has  a  luminous  serenity,  a  limpid  clearness.  The 


A    SUMMER  MORNING.  89 

islands  are  like  swans  swimming  in  a  golden  stream. 
Peace,  splendor,  boundless  space  !....!  long  to 
catch  the  wild  bird,  happiness,  and  tame  it.  These 
mornings  impress  me  indescribably.  They  intoxi 
cate  me,  they  carry  me  away.  I  feel  beguiled  out 
of  myself,  dissolved  in  sunbeams,  breezes,  perfumes, 
and  sudden  impulses  of  joy.  And  yet  all  the  time 
I  pine  for  I  know  not  what  intangible  Eden."  In 
these  few  words  £his  master  of  poetic  meditation 
suggests  without  expressing  the  indescribable  im 
pression  which  a  summer  carries  into  every  sensi 
tive  nature. 

^/ Last  night  the  world  was  sorrowful,  worn,  and 
dulled  ;  but  lo  !  the  new  day  has  but  touched  it 
and  all  the  invisible  choirs  are  heard  again  ;  the 
old  hope  returns  like  a  tide,  and  out  of  the  unseen 
depths  a  new  life  breaks  soundless  upon  the  unseen 
shores  and  sends  its  hidden  currents  into  every 
dried  and  empty  channel  and  pool.  The  worn  old 
world  has  been  created  anew,  and  God  has  spoken 
again  the  word  out  of  which  all  living  things  grow. 
In  the  silence  and  peace  and  freshness  of  this 
morning  hour  one  feels  the  inspiration  of  nature  as 
a  direct  and  personal  gift  ;  the  inbreathing,  which 
has  renewed  the  beauty  and  fertility  about  him, 
renews  his  spirit  also.  He  responds  to  the  fresh 
and  invigorating  atmosphere  with  a  soul  sensitive 
with  suddens-return  of  zest  to  every  beautiful  sight 
and  sound.  \No  longer  analien  in  this  world  which 
has  never  known  human  care  and  regret,  he  enters 


90  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

by  right  of  citizenship  into  all  its  privileges  of  un- 
watched  freedom  and  unclouded  serenity.  One  is 
not  absorbed  by  the  glory  of  the  morning,  but  set 
free  by  it.  There  are  times  when  Nature  permits 
no  rivalry ;  she  claims  every  thought  and  gives 
herself  to  us  only  as  we  give  ourselves  to  her. 
She  effaces  us  and  takes  complete  possession  of 
our  souls.  Not  so,  however,  does  she  usurp  the 
throne  of  our  own  personal  life  in  those  early 
hours  when  the  sun,  the  master  artist,  whose  touch 
has  colored  every  leaf  and  tinted  every  flower, 
demands  her  adoration.  Then  it  is,  perhaps,  that 
she  turns  her  thoughts  from  all  lesser  companion 
ships  and,  rapt  in  universal  worship,  suffers  us  to 
pass  and  repass  as  unnoticed  as  the  idlers  in  the 
cathedral  by  those  who  kneel  at  the  chancel  rail. 

I  confess  I  never  find  myself  quite  unmoved  in 
this  sacred  hour,  announced  only  by  the  stars  veil 
ing  their  faces  and  the  birds  breaking  the  silence 
with  their  tumultuous  song.  The  universal  faith 
becomes  mine  also,  and  from  the  common  worship 
I  am  not  debarred.  My  thought  rises  whither  the 
mists,  parted  from  the  unseen  censers,  are  rising : 
I  feel  within  me  the  revival  of  aspirations  and  faiths 
that  were  fast  overclouding  ;  the  stir  of  old  hopes 
is  in  my  heart ;  the  thrill  of  old  purposes  is  in  my 
soul.  Once  more  Nature  is  serving  me  in  an  hour 
of  need  ;  serving  me  not  by  drawing  me  to  herself, 
but  by  setting  me  free  from  a  world  that  was  begin 
ning  to  master  and  make  me  its  slave. 


A    SUMMER  MORNlftG.  91 

r — s^ 

Now  all  that  insensibly  growing  servitude  slips 
from  me  ;  once  more  I  am  free  and  my  own.  The 
inexhaustible  life  that  is  behind  all  visible  things, 
constantly  flowing  in  upon  us  when  we  keep  the 
channels  open,  recreates  whatever  was  noblest  and 
truest  in  me.  With  Nature,  I  believe  ;  and  believ 
ing,  I  also  share  in  the  universal  worship. 

Emerson  somewhere  says,  writing  about  the  most 
difficult  of  Plato's  dialogues,  that  one  must  often 
wait  long  for  the  hour  when  one  is  strong  enough 
to  grapple  with  and  master  it,  but  sooner  or  later 
the  fitting  morning  will  come.  It  is  the  morning 
which  gives  us  faith  in  the  most  arduous  achieve 
ments,  and  invigorates  us  to  undertake  them.  In 
the  morning  all  things  are  possible  because  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  are  so  visibly  united  in  the 
fellowship  of  common  life  ;  the  one  pouring  down 
a  measureless  and  penetrating  tide  of  vitality,  the 
other  eagerly,  worshipfully  receptive.  Nature  has 
no  more  inspiring  truth  for  us  than  this  constant 
and  complete  enfolding  of  our  life  by  a  higher  and 
vaster  life,  this  unbroken  play  of  a  diviner  purpose 
and  force  through  us.  Nothing  is  lost,  nothing 
really  dies  ;  all  things  are  conserved  by  an  energy 
which  transforms,  reorganizes,  and  perpetuates  in 
new  and  finer  forms  all  visible  things.  The  silence 
of  winter  counterfeits  the  repose  of  death,  but  it  is 
not  even  a  pause  of  life ;  invisibly  to  us  the  great 
movement  goes  on  in  the  earth  under  our  feet. 
While  we  watch  by  our  household  fires,  the  unseen 


92  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

architects  are  planning  the  summer,  and  the  sub 
lime  march  of  the  stars  is  noiselessly  bringing  back 
the  bloom  and  the  perfume  that  seem  to  have  van 
ished  forever.  Every  morning  restores  something 
we  thought  lost,  recalls  some  charm  that  seemed  to 
have  escaped. 

In  all  noble  natures  there/ is  an  ineradicable 
idealism  which  constantly  interprets  life  in  its 
higher  aspects.  In  the  dust  of  the  road  the  mount 
ains  sometimes  disappear  from  our  vision,  but  we 
know  that  they  still  loom  in  undiminished  majesty 
against  the  horizon  ;  the  gods  sometimes  hide 
themselves,  but  there  is  something  within  which 
affirms  that  we  shall  again  look  on  their  serene 
faces,  calm  amid  our  turbulence  and  unchanging 
amid  our  vicissitudes.  It  is  this  heavenly  inheri 
tance  of  insight  and  faith  which  makes  Nature  so 
divinely  significant  to  us,  and  matches  all  its  forms 
and  phenomena  with  spiritual  realities  not  to  be 
taken  from  us  by  time  or  change  or  by  that  mys 
terious  angel  of  the  jast  great  transformation  which 
we  call  death.  V  The  inornTng  is  aTwSys  "breaking 
over  the  low  horizon  lines  of  some  sea  or  conti 
nent  ;  voices  of  birds  are  always  "  caroling  against 
the  gates  of  day "  ;  and  so,  through  unbroken 
light  and  song,  our  life  is  solemnly  and  sublimely 
moved  onward  to  the  dawn  in  which  all  the  faint 
stars  of  our  hope  shall  melt  into  the  eternal  day. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A    SUMMER   NOON. 

THE  stir  of  the  morning  has  given  place  to  a 
silence  broken  only  by  the  shrill  whir  of  the  locust. 
The  distant  shore  lines  that  ran  clear  and  white 
against  the  low  background  of  green  have  become 
dim  and  indistinct ;  all  things  are  touched  by  a 
soft  haze  which  changes  the  sentiment  of  the  land 
scape  from  movement  to  repose,  from  swift  and 
multitudinous  activity  to  the  hush  of  sleep.  The 
intense  blue  of  the  morning  sky  is  dimmed  and  the 
great  masses  of  trees  are  motionless.  The  distant 
harvest  fields  where  the  rhythmic  lines  of  the 
mowers  have  moved  alert  and  harmonious  through 
the  morning  hours  are  deserted.  On  earth  silence 
and  rest,  and  in  the  great  arch  of  the  sky  a  sea  of 
light  so  full  and  splendid  that  it  seems  almost  to 
dim  the  fiery  effluence  of  the  sun  itself.  In  such 
an  hour  one  stretches  himself  under  the  trees,  and 
in  a  moment  the  spell  is  on  him,  and  he  cares 
neither  to  think  nor  act ;  he  rejoices  to  lose  him 
self  in  the  universal  repose  with  which  Nature 
refreshes  herself.  The  heat  of  the  day  is  at  its 
height,  but  for  an  hour  the  burden  slips  from  the 

93 


94  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

shoulders  of  care,  and  the  rest  comes  in  which  the 
gains  of  work  are  garnered. 

The  whir  of  the  locust  high  overhead,  by  some 
earlier  association,  always  recalls  that  matchless 
singer,  some  of  whose  notes  Nature  has  never 
regained  in  all  these  later  years.  The  whir  of  the 
cicada  and  the  white  light  on  the  remote  country 
road  are  real  to  us  to-day,  though  one  went  silent 
and  the  other  faded  out  of  Sicilian  skies  two  thou 
sand  years  and  more  ago,  because  both  are  pre 
served  in  the  verse  of  Theocritus.  The  poet  was 
something  more  than  a  mere  observer  of  Nature, 
and  the  beautiful  repose  of  his  art  more  than  the 
native  grace  and  ease  of  one  to  whom  life  meant 
nothing  more  strenuous  than  a  dream  of  a  blue  sea 
and  fair  sky.  He  had  known  the  din  of  the 
crowded  street  as  well  as  the  silence  of  the  country 
road,  the  forms  and  shows  of  a  royal  court  as  well 
as  the  simplicity  and  sincerity  of  tangled  vines  and 
gnarled  olives  on  the  hillside.  He  had  seen,  with 
those  eyes  which  overlooked  nothing,  the  pomps 
and  vanities  of  power,  the  fret  and  fever  of 
ambition,  the  impotence  and  barrenness  of  much  of 
that  activity  in  which  multitudes  of  men  spend  their 
lives  under  the  delusion  that  mere  stir  and  bustle 
mean  progress  and  achievement.  Out  of  Syracuse, 
with  its  petty  court  about  a  petty  tyrant,  Theocri 
tus  had  come  back  to  the  sea  and  the  sky  and  the 
hardy  pastoral  life  with  a  joy  which  touches  some 
of  his  lines  with  penetrating  tenderness.  Better  a 


A    SUMMER  NOON.  95 

thousand  times  for  him  and  for  us  the  long,  tran 
quil  days  under  the  pine  and  the  olive  than  a  great 
position  under  Hiero's  hand  and  the  weary  intrigue 
and  activity  which  made  the  melancholy  semblance 
of  a  successful  life  for  men  less  wise  and  genuine. 
The  lines  which  the  hand  of  Theocritus  has  left  on 
the  past  are  few  and  marvelously  delicate,  but  they 
seem  to  gain  distinctness  from  the  remorseless 
years  that  have  almost  obliterated  the  features  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lived.  It  is  better  to  see 
clearly  one  or  two  things  in  life  than  to  move  con 
fused  and  blinded  in  the  dust  of  an  impotent 
activity  ;  it  is  better  to  hear  one  or  two  notes  sung 
in  the  overshadowing  trees  than  to  spend  one's  years 
amid  a  murmur  in  which  nothing  is  distinctly  audi 
ble.  Theocritus,  shunning  courts  and  cities,  sought 
to  assuage  the  pain  of  life  at  the  heart  of  Nature, 
and  did  not  seek  in  vain.  He  gave  himself  calmly 
and  sincerely  to  the  sweet  and  natural  life  which 
surrounded  him,  and  in  his  tranquil  self-surrender 
he  gained,  unsuspecting,  the  immortality  denied  his 
eager  and  restless  cotemporaries.  Life  is  so  vast, 
so  unspeakably  rich,  that  to  have  reported  ac 
curately  one  swift  glimpse,  or  to  have  preserved 
the  melody  of  one  rarely  heard  note,  is  to  have 
mastered  a  part  of  the  secret  of  the  immortals. 

Struggle  and  anguish  have  their  place  in  every 
genuine  life,  but  they  are  the  stages  through  which 
it  advances  to  a  strength  which  is  full  of  repose. 
The  bursting  of  the  calyx  announces  the  flower ; 


96  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

but  the  beauty  of  the  perfect  blossoming  obliterated 
the  very  memory  of  its  earlier  growth.  The  climb 
upward  is  often  a  long  anguish,  but  the  dust  and 
weariness  are  forgotten  when  once  the  eye  rests  on 
the  vast  outlook.  "  On  every  height  there  lies  re 
pose  "  is  the  sublime  declaration  of  one  who  had 
looked  into  most  things  deeper  than  his  fellows, 
and  had  learned  much  of  the  profounder  processes 
of  life.  Emerson  long  ago  noted  that  even  in 
action  the  forms  of  the  Greek  heroes  are  always  in 
repose  ;  the  crudity  of  passion,  the  distorting  agony 
of  half-mastered  purpose,  are  lost  in  a  self-forget- 
fulness  which  borrows  from  Olympus  something  of 
the  repose  of  the  gods.  The  sublime  calm  which 
imparts  to  great  works  of  art  a  hint  of  eternity  is 
born  of  complete  mastery  of  life  ;  all  the  stages  of 
evolution  have  been  accomplished,  the  whole  move 
ment  of  growth  has  been  fulfilled,  before  the  hand 
of  art  sets  the  seal  of  perfection  on  the  thing  that 
is  done.  Shadow  and  light,  heat  and  cold,  tempest 
and  quiet  days,  have  all  wrought  together  before 
the  blooming  of  the  flower  which  in  its  perfect 
grace  and  beauty  gives  no  hint  of  its  troubled 
growth.  As  the  consummation  of  all  toil  and 
struggle  and  anguish,  there  comes  at  last  that  deep 
repose,  born  not  of  idleness  and  indifference,  but  of 
the  harmony  of  all  the  elements  in  their  last  and 
finest  form. 

In  the  unbroken  silence  of  the  noontide  such 
thoughts  come  unbidden  and  almost  unnoticed  to 


A    SUMMER  NOON.  97 

one  who  surrenders  himself  to  the  hour  and  the 
scene.  Nature  has  her  tempests,  but  her  harvests 
are  gathered  amid  the  calm  of  days  that  often 
seem  filled  with  the  peace  of  heaven,  and  the 
mighty  and  irresistible  movement  of  her  life  goes 
on  in  unbroken  silence.  The  deepest  thoughts  are 
always  tranquilizing,  the  greatest  minds  are  always 
full  of  calm,  the  richest  lives  have  always  at  heart 
an  unshaken  repose. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

EVENTIDE. 

WHEN  the  shadows  lengthen  and  the  landscape 
becomes  indistinct,  the  common  life  of  men  seems 
to  touch  the  life  of  Nature  most  closely  and  sym 
pathetically.  The  work  of  the  day  is  accomplished  ; 
the  sense  of  things  to  be  done  loses  its  painful  ten 
sion  ;  the  mind,  freed  from  the  cares  which  en 
grossed  it,  opens  unconsciously  to  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  quiet  hour.  The  fields  are  given 
over  to  silence  and  the  gathering  darkness  ;  the 
roads  cease  to  be  thoroughfares  of  toil  ;  and  over 
all  things  the  peace  of  night  settles  like  an  un 
spoken  benediction.  To  the  most  preoccupied 
there  comes  a  consciousness  that  the  world  has 
changed,  and  that,  while  the  old  framework  re 
mains  intact,  a  strange  and  transforming  beauty 
has  touched  and  spiritualized  it.  At  eventide  one 
feels  the  soul  of  Nature  as  at  no  other  hour.  Her 
labors  have  ceased,  her  birds  are  silent  ;  she,  too, 
rests,  and  in  ceasing  to  do  for  us  she  gives  us  her 
self.  One  by  one  the  silvery  points  of  light  break 
out  of  the  darkness  overhead,  and  the  faithful  stars 
look  down  on  the  little  earth  they  have  watched 
98 


EVENTIDE.  99 

over  these  countless  years.  The  very  names  they 
bear  recall  the  vanished  races  who  waited  for  their 
appearing  and  counted  them  friends.  Now  that 
the  lamps  are  lighted  and  the  work  of  the  day  is 
done  is  it  strange  that  the  venerable  mother,  whose 
lullabies  have  soothed  so  many  generations  into 
sleep,  should  herself  appeal  to  us  in  some  intimate 
and  personal  way  ? 

With  the  fading  out  of  shore  and  sea  and  forest 
line  something  deeper  and  more  spiritual  rises  in 
the  soul  as  the  mists  rise  on  the  lowlands  and  over 
the  surface  of  the  waters.  We  surrender  ourselves 
to  it  silently,  reverently,  and  a  change  no  less  sub 
tle  and  penetrating  is  wrought  in  us.  Our  per 
sonal  ambitions,  the  sharply  defined  aims  of  our 
working  hours,  the  very  limitations  of  our  individ 
uality,  are  gone  ;  we  lose  ourselves  in  the  larger 
life  of  which  we  are  part.  After  the  fret  of  the 
day  we  surrender  ourselves  to  universal  life  as  the 
bather,  worn  and  spent,  gives  himself  to  the  sea. 
There  is  no  loss  of  personal  force,  but  for  an  hour 
the  individual  activity  is  blended  with  the  univer 
sal  movement  and  the  peace  and  quiet  of  infinity 
calm  and  restore  the  soul.  Meditation  comes  with 
eventide  as  naturally  as  action  with  the  morning  ; 
our  soul  opens  to  the  soul  of  Nature,  and  we  dis 
cover  anew  that  we  are  one.  In  the  noblest  pas 
sage  in  Latin  poetry  Lucretius  invokes  the  universal 
spirit  of  Nature,  and  identifies  it  with  the  creative 
force  which  impels  the  stars  and  summons  the  flow- 


loo  UNDER    TUE    TREES. 

ers  to  strew  themselves  in  the  path  of  the  sun. 
There  is  nothing  so  refreshing,  so  reinvigorating, 
as  fresh  contact  with  the  fountain  whence  all  visi 
ble  life  flows,  as  a  renewed  sense  of  oneness  with 
the  mighty  appearance  of  things  in  which  we  live. 
Now  that  all  outlines  are  softened,  all  distinctive 
features  are  lost,  Nature  loses  its  materialism,  and 
becomes  to  our  thought  the  vast,  silent,  unbroken 
flow  of  force  which  the  later  science  has  substituted 
for  an  earlier  and  cruder  conception.  And  this 
invisible  stream  leads  us  back,  as  our  thoughts 
unconsciously  follow  it,  to  One  whose  thought  it  is 
and  whose  mind  shares  with  our  mind  something 
of  the  unsearchable  mystery  of  its  purpose  and 
nature. 

Some  one  has  said  that  a  man  is  great  rather  by 
reason  of  his  unconscious  thought  than  by  reason 
of  his  deliberate  and  self-directed  thinking.  Re 
leased  from  meditation  on  definite  and  special 
themes,  the  thought  of  a  great  man  instinctively 
returns  to  the  mystery  of  life.  No  poet  creates  a 
Hamlet  unless  he  has  brooded  long  and  almost  un 
consciously  on  the  deeper  things  that  make  up  the 
inner  life  ;  such  a  figure,  forever  externalizing  the 
profounder  and  more  obscure  phases  of  being,  is 
born  of  secret  and  habitual  contact  with  the  deep 
est  experiences  and  the  most  fundamental  prob 
lems.  The  mind  of  a  Shakespeare  must  often,  for 
saking  the  busy  world  of  actuality,  meditate  in  the 
twilight  which  seems  to  release  the  soul  of  things 


EVENTIDE,  101 

seen,  and,  veiling  the  actual,  reveal  the  realities  of 
existence. 

Revery  becomes  of  the  highest  importance  when 
it  substitutes  for  definite  thinking  that  deep  and 
silent  meditation  in  which  alone  the  soul  comes  to 
know  itself  and  pierces  the  wonderful  movement  of 
things  about  it  to  its  source  and  principle.  One  of 
Amiel's  magical  phrases  is  that  in  which  he  de 
scribes  revery  as  the  Sunday  of  the  soul.  Toil 
over,  care  banished,  the  world  forgotten ,  one  com 
munes  with  that  which  is  eternal.  In  the  long 
course  of  centuries  the  forests  are  as  short-lived  as 
the  flowers  ;  all  visible  forms  are  but  momentary 
expressions  of  the  creative  force.  In  the  work  of 
the  greatest  mind  all  spoken  and  written  thoughts 
are  but  partial  and  passing  utterances  of  a  life  of 
whose  volume  and  movement  they  afford  only  half- 
comprehended  hints.  After  a  Shakespeare  has 
written  thirty  immortal  plays  he  must  still  feel  that 
what  was  deepest  in  him  is  unuttered.  There  is 
that  below  all  expression  of  life  which  remains  for 
ever  unspoken  and  unspeakable  ;  it  is  ours,  but  we 
cannot  share  it  with  others  ;  we  drop  our  plummets 
into  its  depths  in  vain.  It  is  deeper  than  our 
thought,  and  it  is  only  at  rare  moments,  when  we 
surrender  ourselves  to  ourselves,  that  the  sense  of 
what  it  contains  and  means  fills  us  with  a  sudden 
and  overpowering  consciousness  of  immortality. 
Out  of  this  deeper  life  all  great  thoughts  rise  into 
consciousness,  losing  much  by  imprisonment  in  any 


102  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

form  of  speech,  but  still  bringing  with  them  in 
dubitable  evidence  of  their  more  than  royal  birth. 
From  time  to  time,  like  the  elder  race  of  prophets, 
they  enter  into  our  speech  and  renew  the  fading 
sense  of  the  divinity  of  life,  and  so,  through  in 
dividual  souls,  the  deeper  truths  are  retold  from 
generation  to  generation. 

As  one  meditates  in  this  evening  hour,  the  dark 
ness  has  gathered  over  the  world  and  folded  it  out 
of  sight.  The  few  faint  stars  have  become  a 
shining  host,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens  have 
substituted  for  the  near  and  familiar  beauty  of  the 
earth  their  own  sublime  and  awful  commingling  of 
unsearchable  darkness  and  unquenchable  light.  So 
in  every  human  life  the  near  and  the  familiar  is 
overarched  by  infinity  and  eternity. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    TURN    OF    THE    TIDE. 

FOR  days  past  there  have  been  intangible  hints 
of  change  in  earth  and  air  ;  the  birds  are  silent, 
and  the  universal  strident  note  of  insect  life  makes 
more  musical  to  memory  the  melodies  of  the  earlier 
season.  The  sense  of  overflowing  vitality  which 
pervaded  all  things  a  few  days  ago,  when  the  tide 
was  at  the  flood,  has  gone  ;  the  tide  has  turned, 
and  already  one  sees  the  receding  movement  of  the 
ebb.  Through  all  the  vanished  months  of  flower 
and  song,  one's  thought  has  traveled  fast  upon  the 
advancing  march  of  summer,  trying  to  keep  pace 
with  it  as  it  pushed  its  fragrant  conquest  north 
ward  ;  to-day  there  is  a  brief  interval  of  pause  be 
fore  the  same  thought,  following  the  sunshine,  turns 
south  again,  and  seeks-  the  tropics.  A  little  later 
the  spell  of  an  indescribable  peace  will  rest  upon 
the  earth,  but  a  peace  that  will  be  but  a  brief 
truce  between  elements  soon  to  close  in  struggle 
again.  To-day,  however,  one  feels  the  repose  of  a 
finished  work  before  the  first  mellow  touch  of 
decay  has  come.  The  full,  rich  foliage  still  shel 
ters  the  paths  upon  which  the  leaves  have  not  yet 
fallen ;  the  meadows  are  green ;  the  skies  soft 
103 


104  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

and  benignant.  The  conquest  of  summer  is  still 
intact,  but  here  and  there  one  sees  slight  but  un 
mistakable  evidence  that  the  garrison,  under  cover 
of  night,  is  beginning  its  long  retreat.  In  such  a 
moment  one  feels  a  sudden  sense  of  loneliness,  as 
if  a  friend  were  secretly  preparing  to  desert  one  to 
his  foes. 

In  this  pause  of  the  season  one  finds  the  subtle 
beauty  and  completeness  of  the  summer  growing 
upon  him  more  and  more.  While  the  work  was 
going  forward,  there  was  such  profound  interest  in 
the  process  that  one  watched  the  turn  and  direction 
of  the  chisel  rather  than  the  surface  of  the  marble 
slowly  answering,  line  by  line,  the  overmastering 
thought  ;  but  now  that  the  months  of  toil  are  past, 
and  all  the  implements  of  labor  are  cast  aside,  the 
finished  work  absorbs  all  thought  and  fills  -all 
imaginations.  So  vast  is  it,  and  on  such  a  scale  of 
magnitude,  that  one  hardly  saw  before  the  delicacy 
and  exquisite  adjustment  of  parts,  the  marvelous 
art  that  framed  the  smallest  leaf  and  touched  the 
vagrant  wild  flower  still  blooming  on  the  edges  of 
the  woodland.  It  is,  after  all,  when  the  great  festi 
val  days  are  over  and  the  thronging  crowds  have 
gone,  that  the  true  worshiper  finds  the  temple 
beautiful  with  the  highest  visions  of  worship,  and 
in  the  silence  of  deserted  aisles  and  shrines  sees 
with  new  wonder  the  workmanship  of  the  Deity. 
For  all  such  this  is  the  most  solemn  of  all  the  re 
curring  Sabbaths  of  the  year  ;  the  hush  at  noonday 


THE    TURN  OF    THE    TIDE.  105 

and  at  even  is  itself  an  unspoken  prayer.  The 
moment  of  completion  in  the  history  of  any  great 
work  is  always  sacred.  When  the  noise  and  dust 
of  the  working  days  are  gone,  the  great  illuminat 
ing  thought  shines  out  unobscured  ;  and  in  the 
perception  of  this  universal  element,  which  on  the 
instant  wins  recognition  from  every  mind,  the  per 
sonal  element  vanishes  ;  the  mere  skill  of  the 
workman  is  forgotten  in  the  new  revelation  of  soul 
which  it  has  given  the  world.  For  the  same  reason 
Nature  takes  on  in  these  few  and  peaceful  days  a 
spiritual  aspect,  and  the  most  careless  finds  himself 
touched,  perhaps  saddened,  he  knows  not  how  or 
why. 

Now  again  is  the  old  mystery  and  deep  secret 
of  life  forced  upon  thought :  "  Except  a  grain  of 
wheat  fall  into  the  earth  and  die,  it  abideth  by  itself 
alone  ;  but  if  it  die,  it  beareth  much  fruit."  When 
the  tide  was  at  the  flood  it  was  enough  to  breathe 
the  air  and  listen  to  the  magical  music  of  advanc 
ing  life  ;  but  now,  when  the  tide  begins  to  recede 
and  leave  the  vast  shores  bare  and  silent,  one  must 
think,  whether  he  will  or  not.  Nature,  that  was 
careless  poet,  flower-crowned  and  buoyant  with  the 
promise  of  eternal  youth,  turns  teacher,  and  will 
not  suffer  us  to  escape  the  deeper  truths,  the  more 
searching  and  awful  lessons.  As  the  physical  falls 
away  the  spiritual  comes  into  clear  and  compelling 
distinctness.  Who  that  goes  abroad  in  these  quiet 
days,  and  feels  the  subtle  change  from  the  grosser 


106  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

to  the  ethereal  which  pervades  the  very  air,  can 
escape  the  threefold  thought  of  Life,  Death,  and 
Immortality  ? 

The  silence  that  has  already  fallen  upon  the 
jubilant  voices  of  summer  will  extend  and  deepen 
day  by  day  until  even  the  thoughtless  babbling  of 
the  brooks  ceases  and  the  hush  becomes  universal. 
The  earth,  that  a  little  time  ago  was  producing 
such  an  endless  variety  of  forms  of  life  and  beauty, 
will  give  birth  to  a  myriad  thoughts,  deep,  spiritual, 
and  far-reaching  ;  translating  into  the  language  of 
spirit  the  vast  movement  of  the  year,  and  complet 
ing  its  mysterious  cycle  with  a  vision  of  the  sublime 
ends  for  which  Nature  stands,  and  to  the  consum 
mation  of  which  all  things  are  borne  forward.  And 
when  the  time  is  ripe  there  will  come  a  transforma 
tion  like  the  descent  of  the  heavens  upon  the  earth, 
flooding  the  dying  world  with  unspeakable  splen 
dors  ;  the  sunset  which  closes  the  long  summer 
day  and  leaves  through  the  night  of  winter  the 
fadeless  promise  of  another  dawn. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  MEMORY   OF  SUMMER. 

IN  the  pine  woods,  or  floating  under  overhanging 
branches  on  the  silent  and  almost  motionless  river,  I 
have  had  visions  of  my  study  fire  during  the  sum 
mer  months,  and,  now  that  I  find  myself  once 
more  within  the  cheerful  circle  of  its  glow,  the 
time  that  has  passed  since  it  was  lighted  for  the 
last  time  in  the  spring  seems  like  a  long,  delightful 
dream.  I  recall  those  charming  days,  some  of 
them  full  of  silence  and  repose  from  dawn  to  sun 
set,  some  of  them  ripe  with  effort  and  adventure, 
with  a  keen  delight  in  the  feeling  of  possession 
which  comes  with  them  ;  they  were  brief,  they 
have  gone,  but  they  are  mine  forever.  The  beauty 
and  freshness  that  touched  them  morning  after 
morning  as  the  dew  touches  the  flower  are  hence 
forth  a  part  of  my  life  ;  they  have  entered  into  my 
soul  as  their  light  and  heat  entered  into  the  ripen 
ing  fruits  and  grains.  I  have  come  back  to  my 
friendly  fire  richer  and  wiser  for  my  absence  from 
its  cheer  and  warmth  ;  my  life  has  been  renewed 
at  those  ancient  sources  whence  all  our  knowledge 
has  come  ;  I  have  felt  again  the  solitude  and 
107 


108  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

sanctity  of  those  venerable  shades  where  the  voices 
of  the  oracles  were  once  heard,  and  fleeting 
glimpses  of  shy  divinities  made  a  momentary  splen 
dor  in  the  dusky  depths. 

Wordsworth's  sonnets  are  always  within  reach 
of  those  who  never  get  beyond  the  compelling 
voice  of  nature,  and  who  are  continually  returning 
to  her  with  a  sense  of  loss  and  decline  after  every 
wandering.  As  I  take  up  the  little,  well-worn  book, 
it  opens  of  itself  at  a  familiar  page,  and  I  read 
once  more  that  sonnet  which  comes  to  one  at  times 
with  an  unspeakable  pathos  in  its  lines — a  sense  of 
permanent  alienation  and  loss  : 

"  The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  ; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sorbid  boon. 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  springing  flowers — 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune. 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

Almost  unconsciously  I  repeat  these  lines  aloud, 
and  straightway  the  fire,  breaking  into  flame  where 
it  has  been  only  glowing  before,  answers  them 
with  a  sudden  outburst  of  heat  and  light  that  make 


A   MEMORY  OF  SUMMER.  109 

a  brief  summer  in  my  study.  When  one  goes  back 
to  the  woods  and  streams  after  long  separation  and 
absorption  in  books  and  affairs,  he  misses  some 
thing  which  once  thrilled  and  inspired  him.  The 
meadows  are  unchanged,  but  the  light  that  touched 
them  illusively,  but  with  a  lasting  and  incommuni 
cable  beauty,  is  gone  ;  the  woodlands  are  dim  and 
shadowy  as  of  old,  but  they  are  vacant  of  the  pres 
ence  that  once  filled  them.  There  is  something 
painfully  disheartening  in  coming  back  to  Nature 
and  finding  one's  self  thus  unwelcomed  and  uncared 
for,  and  in  the  first  moment  of  disappointment  an 
unspoken  accusation  of  change  and  coldness  lies 
in  the  heart.  The  change  is  not  in  Nature,  how 
ever  ;  it  is  in  ourselves.  "  The  world  is  too  much 
with  us."  Not  until  its  strife  and  tumult  fade  into 
distance  and  memory  will  those  finer  senses,  dulled 
by  contact  with  a  meaner  life,  restore  that  which 
we  have  lost.  After  a  little  some  such  thought  as 
this  comes  to  us,  and  day  after  day  we  haunt  the 
silent  streams  and  the  secret  places  of  the  forest  ; 
waiting,  watching,  unconsciously  bringing  ourselves 
once  more  into  harmony  with  the  great,  rich  world 
around  us,  we  forget  the  tumult  out  of  which  we 
have  come,  a  deep  peace  possesses  us,  and  in  its 
unbroken  quietness  the  old  sights  and  sounds 
return  again.  Youth,  faith,  hope,  and  love  spring 
again  out  of  a  soil  which  had  begun  to  deny  them 
sustenance  ;  old  dreams  mingle  with  our  waking 
hours  ;  the  old-time  channels  of  joy,  long  silent 


HO  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

and  bare,  overflow  with  streams  that  restore  a  lost 
world  of  beauty  in  our  souls.  We  have  come  back 
to  Nature,  and  she  has  not  denied  us,  in  spite  of 
our  disloyalty. 

I  know  of  nothing  more  full  of  deep  delight 
than  this  return  of  the  old  companionship,  this 
restoration  of  the  old  intimacy.  How  much  there 
is  to  recall,  how  many  confidences  there  are  to  be 
exchanged  !  The  days  are  not  long  enough  for  all 
we  would  say  and  hear.  Such  hours  come  in  the 
pine  woods  ;  hours  so  full  of  the  strange  silence  of 
the  place,  so  unbroken  by  customary  habits  and 
thoughts,  that  no  dial  could  divide  into  fragments 
a  day  that  was  one  long  unbroken  spell  of  wonder 
and  delight.  So  remote  seemed  all  human  life 
that  even  memory  turned  from  it  and  lost  herself 
in  silent  meditation  ;  so  vast  and  mysterious  was 
the  life  of  Nature  that  the  past  and  the  future 
seemed  part  of  the  changeless  present.  The  light 
fell  soft  and  dim  through  the  thickly  woven 
branches  and  among  the  densely  clustered  trunks  ; 
underneath,  the  deep  masses  of  pine  needles  and 
the  rich  moss  spread  a  carpet  on  which  the  heaviest 
footfall  left  the  silence  unbroken.  It  was  a  place 
of  dreams  and  mysteries. 

"  Heed  the  old  oracles, 

Ponder  my  spells  ; 
Song  wakes  in  my  pinnacles 

When  the  wind  swells. 
Soundeth  the  prophetic  wind, 
The  shadows  shake  on  the  rock  behind, 


A   MEMORY  OF  SUMMER.  Ill 

And  the  countless  leaves  of  the  pine  arc  strings 
Tuned  to  the  lay  the  wood-god  sings. 

Hearken  !  hearken  ! 
If  thou  vvouldst  know  the  mystic  song 
Chanted  when  the  sphere  was  young, 
Aloft,  abroad,  the  poean  swells  ; 
O  wise  man  !  hear'st  thou  half  it  tells  ?  " 

Sitting  there,  with  the  deep  peace  of  the  place 
sinking  into  the  soul,  the  solitude  was  full  of  com 
panionship  ;  the  very  silence  seemed  to  give  Nature 
a  tone  more  commanding,  an  accent  more  thrilling. 
At  intervals  the  gusts  of  wind  reaching  the  borders 
of  the  wood  filled  the  air  with  distant  murmurs  which 
widened,  deepened,  approached,  until  they  broke 
into  a  great  wave  of  sound  overhead,  and  then,  re 
ceding,  died  in  fainter  and  ever  fainter  sounds. 
There  was  something  in  this  sudden  and  unfamiliar 
roar  of  the  pines  that  hinted  at  its  kinship  with 
the  roar  of  the  sea ;  but  it  had  a  different  tone. 
Waste  and  trackless  solitudes  and  death  are  in  the 
roar  of  the  sea  ;  remoteness,  untroubled  centuries 
of  silence,  the  strange  alien  memories  of  woodland 
life,  are  in  the  roar  of  the  pines.  The  forgotten 
ages  of  an  immemorial  past  seem  to  have  become 
audible  in  it,  and  to  speak  of  things  which  had 
ceased  to  exist  before  human  speech  was  born  ; 
things  which  lie  at  the  roots  of  instinct  rather  than 
within  the  recollection  of  thought.  The  pines 
only  murmur,  but  the  secret  which  they  guard  so 
well  is  mine  as  well  as  theirs  ;  I  am  no  alien  in  this 
secluded  world  ;  my  citizenship  is  here  no  less  than 


H2  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

in  that  other  world  to  which  I  shall  return,  but  to 
which  I  shall  never  wholly  belong.  The  most  soli 
tary  moods  of  Nature  are  not  incommunicable  ; 
they  may  be  shared  by  those  who  can  forget  them 
selves  and  hold  their  minds  open  to  the  elusive  but 
potent  influences  of  the  forest.  He  who  can  es 
cape  the  prison  of  habit  and  work  and  routine  can 
say  with  Emerson  : 

"  When  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
When  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools  and  the  learned  clan  ; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ?/' 


IN  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN 


Go  with  me  :  if  you  rise,  upon  reporr, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  factor  be, 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly. 


"AND  I  FOR  ROSALIND." 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 
I. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither. 

ROSALIND  had  just  laid  a  spray  of  apple  blos« 
soms  on  the  study  taole. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  when  shall  we  start  ? " 

"  To-morrow." 

Rosalind  has  a  habit  of  swift  decision  when  she 
has  settled  a  question  in  her  own  mind,  and  I  was 
not  surprised  when  she  replied  with  a  single  deci 
sive  word.  But  she  also  has  a  habit  of  making  thor 
ough  preparation  for  any  undertaking,  and  now  she 
was  quietly  proposing  to  go  off  for  the  summer  the 
very  next  day,  and  not  a  trunk  was  packed,  not  a 
seat  secured  in  any  train,  not  a  movement  made 
toward  any  winding  up  of  household  affairs.  I 
had  great  faith  in  her  ability  to  execute  her  plans 
with  celerity,  but  I  doubted  whether  she  could  be 
ready  to  turn  the  key  in  the  door,  bid  farewell  to 
the  milkman  and  the  butcher,  and  start  the  very 
next  day  for  the  Forest  of  Arden.  For  several  past 


Il6  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

seasons  we  had  planned  this  bold  excursion  into 
a  country  which  few  persons  have  seemed  to  know 
much  about  since  the  day  when  a  poet  of  great 
fame,  familiar  with  many  strange  climes  and 
peoples,  found  his  way  thither  and  shared  the 
golden  fortune  of  his  journey  with  all  the  world. 
Winter  after  winter  before  the  study  fire,  we  had 
made  merry  plans  for  this  trip  into  the  magical 
forest ;  we  had  discussed  the  best  methods  of  trav 
eling  where  no  roads  led  ;  we  had  enjoyed  in  an 
ticipation  the  surmises  of  our  neighbors  concerning 
our  unexplained  absence,  and  the  delightful  mystery 
which  would  always  linger  about  us  when  we  had 
returned,  with  memories  of  a  landscape  which  no 
eyes  but  ours  had  seen  these  many  years,  and  of 
rare  and  original  people  whose  voices  had  been 
silent  in  common  speech  so  many  generations  that 
only  a  few  dreamers  like  ourselves  even  remem 
bered  that  they  had  ever  spoken.  We  had  looked 
along  the  library  shelves  for  the  books  we  should 
take  with  us,  until  we  remembered  that  in  that 
country  there  were  books  in  the  running  streams. 
Rosalind  had  gone  so  far  as  to  lay  aside  a  certain 
volume  of  sermons  whose  aspiring  note  had  more 
than  once  made  music  of  the  momentary  discords 
of  her  life  ;  but  I  reminded  her  that  such  a  work 
would  be  strangely  out  of  place  in  a  forest  where 
there  were  sermons  in  stones.  Finally  we  had  de 
cided  to  leave  books  behind  and  go  free-minded  as 
well  as  free-hearted.  It  had  been  a  serious  ques- 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  AKDEN.  117 

tion  how  much  and  what  apparel  we  should  take 
with  us,  and  that  point  was  still  unsettled  when 
the  apple  trees  came  to  their  blossoming.  It  is  a 
theory  of  mine  that  the  chief  delight  of  a  vacation 
from  one's  usual  occupations  is  freedom  from  the 
tyranny  of  plans  and  dates,  and  thus  much  Rosalind 
had  conceded  to  me. 

There  had  been  an  irresistible  charm  in  the  very 
secrecy  which  protected  our  adventure  from  the 
curious  and  unsympathetic  comment  of  the  world. 
We  found  endless  pleasure  in  imagining  what  this 
and  that  good  neighbor  of  ours  would  say  about 
the  folly  of  leaving  a  comfortable  house,  good 
beds,  and  a  well-stocked  larder  for  the  hard  fare  and 
uncertain  shelter  of  a  strange  forest.  "  For  my 
part,"  we  gleefully  heard  Mrs.  Grundy  declare, — 
"  for  my  part,  I  cannot  understand  why  two  people 
old  enough  to  know  better  should  make  tramps  of 
themselves  and  go  rambling  about  a  piece  of  woods 
that  nobody  ever  heard  of  in  the  heat  of  the  mid 
summer."  Poor  Mrs.  Grundy  !  We  could  well 
afford  to  laugh  merrily  at  her  scornful  expostula 
tions  ;  for  while  she  was  repeating  platitudes  to 
overdressed  and  uninteresting  people  at  Oldport, 
we  should  be  making  sunny  play  of  life  with  men 
and  women  whose  thoughts  were  free  as  the  wind, 
and  whose  hearts  were  fresh  as  the  dew  and  the 
stars.  And  often  when  our  talk  had  died  into 
silence,  and  the  wind  without  whistled  to  the  fire 
within,  we  had  fallen  to  dreaming  of  those  shadowy 


Il8  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

aisles  arched  by  the  mighty  trees,  and  of  the 
splendid  pageant  that  should  make  life  seem  as 
great  and  rich  as  Nature  herself.  I  confess  that 
all  my  dreams  came  to  one  ending  ;  that  I  should 
suddenly  awake  in  some  golden  hour  and  really 
know  Rosalind.  jOf  course  I  had  been  coming 
through  all  these  years  to  know  something  about 
Rosalind  ;  but  in  this  busy  world,  with  work  to  be 
done,  and  bills  to  be  paid,  and  people  to  be  seen, 
and  journeys  to  be  made,  and  friction  and  worry 
and  fatigue  to  be  borne,  how  can  we  really  come 
to  know  one  another  ?  We  may  meet  the  vicissi 
tudes  and  changes  side  by  side  ;  we  may  work 
together  in  the  long  days  of  toil  ;  our  hearts  may 
repose  on  a  common  trust,  our  thoughts  travel  a 
common  road  ;  but  how  rarely  do  we  come  to  the 
hour  when  the  pressure  of  toil  is  removed,  the 
clouds  of  anxiety  melt  into  blue  sky,  and  in  the 
whole  world  nothing  remains  but  the  sun  on  the 
flower,  and  the  song  in  the  trees,  and  the  unclouded 
light  of  love  in  the  eyes  ? 

I  dreamed,  too,  that  in  finding  Rosalind  I  should 
also  find  myself.  There  were  times  when  I  had 
seemed  on  the  very  point  of  making  this  discovery, 
but  something  had  always  turned  me  aside  when 
the  quest  was  most  eager  and  promising  J  the 
world  pressed  into  the  seclusion  for  which  I  had 
struggled,  and  when  I  waited  to  hear  its  faintest 
murmur  die  in  the  distance,  suddenly  the  tumult 
had  risen  again,  and  the  dream  of  self-communion 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  119 

and  self-knowledge  had  vanished.  To  get  out  of 
the  uproar  and  confusion  of  things,  I  had  often 
fancied,  would  be  like  exchanging  the  dusty  mid 
summer  road  for  the  shade  of  the  woods  where  the 
brook  calms  the  day  with  its  pellucid  note  of  effort 
less  flow,  and  the  hours  hide  themselves  from  the 
glances  of  the  sun.  In  the  forest  of  Arden  I  felt 
sure  I  should  find  the  repose,  the  quietude,  the 
freedom  of  thought,  which  would  permit  me  to 
know  myself.  There,  too,  I  suspected  Nature  had 
certain  surprises  for  me  ;  certain  secrets  which  she 
has  been  holding  back  for  the  fortunate  hour  when 
her  spell  would  be  supreme  and  unbroken.  I  even 
hoped  that  I  might  come  unaware  upon  that 
ancient  and  perennial  movement  of  life  upon  which 
I  seemed  always  to  happen  the  very  second  after  it 
had  been  suspended  ;  that  I  might  hear  the  note  of 
the  hermit  thrush  breaking  out  of  the  heart  of  the 
forest  ;  the  soulful  melody  of  the  nightingale, 
pathetic  with  unappeasable  sorrow.  In  the  Forest 
of  Arden,  too,  there  were  unspoiled  men  and 
women,  as  indifferent  to  the  fashion  of  the  world 
and  the  folly  of  the  hour  as  the  stars  to  the  impal 
pable  mist  of  the  clouds ;  men  and  women  who 
spoke  the  truth,  and  saw  the  fact,  and  lived  the 
right ;  to  whom  love  and  faith  and  high  hopes  were 
more  real  than  the  crowns  of  which  they  had  been 
despoiled  and  the  kingdoms  from  which  they  had 
been  rejected.  All  this  I  had  dreamed,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  other  brave  and  beautiful 


120  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

dreams,  and  I  was  dreaming  them  again  when 
Rosalind  laid  the  apple  blossoms  on  the  study 
table,  and  answered,  decisively,  "  To-morrow." 

"  To-morrow,"  I  repeated  ;  "  to-morrow.  But 
how  are  you  going  to  get  ready  ?  If  you  sit  up  all 
night  you  cannot  get  through  with  the  packing. 
You  said  only  yesterday  that  your  summer  dress 
making  was  shamefully  behind.  My  dear,  next 
week  is  the  earliest  possible  time  for  our  going." 

Rosalind  laughed  archly,  and  pushed  the  apple 
blossoms  over  the  woefully  interlined  manuscript 
of  my  new  article  on  Egypt.  There  was  in  her 
very  attitude  a  hint  of  unsuspected  buoyancy  and 
strength  ;  there  was  in  her  eyes  a  light  which  I 
have  never  seen  under  our  uncertain  skies.  The 
breath  of  the  apple  blossoms  filled  the  room,  and  a 
bobolink,  poised  on  a  branch  outside  the  window, 
suddenly  poured  a  rapturous  song  into  the  silence 
of  the  sweet  spring  day.  I  laid  down  my  pen, 
pushed  my  scattered  sheets  into  the  portfolio, 
covered  the  inkstand,  and  laid  my  hand  in  hers. 
"  Not  to-morrow,"  I  said,  "  not  to-morrow.  Let 
us  go  now." 


n. 

Now  go  we  in  content 

To  liberty  and  not  to  banishment. 

I  HAVE  sometimes  entertained  myself  by  trying 
to  imagine  the  impressions  which  our  modern  life 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  121 

would  make  upon  some  sensitive  mind  of  a  remote 
age.  I  have  fancied  myself  rambling  about  New 
York  with  Montaigne,  and  taking  note  of  his  shrewd, 
satirical  comment.  I  can  hardly  imagine  him  ex 
pressing  any  feeling  of  surprise,  much  less  any 
sentiment  of  admiration  ;  but  I  am  confident  that 
under  a  masque  of  ironical  self-complacency  the 
old  Gascon  would  find  it  difficult  to  repress  his 
astonishment,  and  still  more  difficult  to  adjust  his 
mind  to  evident  and  impressive  changes.  I  have 
ventured  at  times  to  imagine  myself  in  the  company 
of  another  more  remote  and  finely  organized  spirit 
of  the  past,  and  pictured  to  myself  the  keen,  dis 
passionate  criticism  of  Pericles  on  the  things  of 
modern  habit  and  creation  ;  I  have  listened  to  his 
luminous  interpretations  of  the  changed  conditions 
which  he  saw  about  him ;  I  have  noted  his  uncon 
cern  toward  the  merely  material  advances  of  so 
ciety,  his  penetrative  insight  into  its  intellectual 
and  moral  developments.  A  mind  so  capacious 
and  open,  a  nature  so  trained  and  poised,  could 
not  be  otherwise  than  self-contained  and  calm  even 
in  the  presence  of  changes  so  vast  and  manifold  as 
those  which  have  transformed  society  since  the 
days  of  the  great  Athenian  ;  but  even  he  could  not 
be  quite  unmoved  if  brought  face  to  face  with  a  life 
so  unlike  that  with  which  he  had  been  familiar  ; 
there  must  come,  even  to  one  who  feels  the  mastery 
of  the  soul  over  all  conditions,  a  certain  sense  of 
wonder  and  awe. 


122  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

It  was  with  some  such  feeling  that  Rosalind  and 
I  found  ourselves  in  the  Forest  of  Arden.  The 
journey  was  so  soon  accomplished  that  we  had  no 
time  to  accustom  ourselves  to  the  changes  between 
the  country  we  had  left  and  that  to  which  we  had 
come.  We  had  always  fancied  that  the  road  would 
be  long  and  hard,  and  that  we  should  arrive  worn 
and  spent  with  the  fatigues  of  travel.  We  were 
astonished  and  delighted  when  we  suddenly  dis 
covered  that  we  were  within  the  boundaries  of  the 
Forest  long  before  we  had  begun  to  think  of  the 
end  of  our  journey.  We  had  said  nothing  to  each 
other  by  the  way  ;  our  thoughts  were  so  busy  that 
we  had  no  time  for  speech.  There  were  no  other 
travelers  ;  everybody  seemed  to  be  going  in  the 
opposite  direction  ;  and  we  were  left  to  undisturbed 
meditation.  The  route  to  the  Forest  is  one  of  those 
open  secrets  which  whosoever  ""would  know  must 
learn  for  himself  ;  it  is  impossible  to  direct  those 
who  do  not  discover  for  themselves  how  to  make 
the  journey.  The  Forest  is  probably  the  most 
accessible  place  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  but  it  is 
so  rarely  visited  that  one  may  go  half  a  lifetime 
without  meeting  a  person  who  has  been  there.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  explain  the  fact  that  those 
who  have  spent  some  time  in  the  Forest,  as  well  as 
those  who  are  later  to  see  it,  seem  to  recognize  each 
other  by  instinct.  Rosalind  and  I  happen  to  have 
a  large  circle  of  acquaintances,  and  it  has  been  our 
good  fortune  to  meet  and  recognize  many  who 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  AKDEN.  123 

were  familiar  with  the  Forest  and  who  were  able  to 
tell  us  much  about  its  localities  and  charms.  It  is 
not  generally  known,  and  it  is  probably  wise  not  to 
emphasize  the  fact,  that  the  fortunate  few  who  have 
access  to  the  Forest  form  a  kind  of  secret  frater 
nity  ;  a  brotherhood  of  the  soul  which  is  secret  be 
cause  those  alone  who  are  qualified  for  member 
ship  by  nature  can  understand  either  its  language 
or  its  aims.  It  is  a  very  strange  thing  that  the 
dwellers  in  the  Forest  never  make  the  least  attempt 
at  concealment,  but  that,  no  matter  how  frank  and 
explicit  their  statements  may  be,  nobody  outside 
the  brotherhood  ever  understands  where  the  Forest 
lies  or  what  one  finds  when  he  gets  there.  One 
may  write  what  he  chooses  about  life  in  the  Forest, 
and  only  those  whom  Nature  has  selected  and 
trained  will  understand  what  he  discloses  ;  to  all 
others  it  will  be  an  idle  tale  or  a  fairy  story  for  the 
entertainment  of  people  who  have  no  serious  busi 
ness  in  hand. 

I  remember  well  the  first  time  I  ever  understood 
that  there  is  a  Forest  of  Arden,  and  that  they  who 
choose  may  wander  through  its  arched  aisles  of 
shade  and  live^at  their  will  in  its  deep  and  beauti 
ful  solitude  ;  a  s&litude  in  which  nature  sits  like  a 
friend  from  whose  face  the  veil  has  been  with 
drawn,  and  whose  strange  and  foreign  utterance 
has  been  exchanged  for  the  most  familiar  speech. 
Since  that  memorable  afternoon  under  the  apple 
trees  I  have  never  been  far  from  the  Forest,  al- 


124  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

though  at  times  I  have  lost  sight  of  the  line  which 
its  foliage  makes  against  the  horizon.  I  have 
always  intended  to  cross  that  line  some  day  and  to 
explore  the  Forest ;  perhaps  even  to  make  a  home 
for  myself  there.  But  one's  dreams  must  often 
wait  for  their  realization,  and  so  it  has  come  to 
pass  that  I  have  gone  all  these  years  without  per 
sonal  familiarity  with  these  beautiful  scenes.  I 
have  since  learned  that  one  never  comes  to  the 
Forest  until  he  is  thoroughly  prepared  in  heart  and 
mind,  and  I  understand  now  that  I  could  not  have 
come  earlier  even  if  I  had  made  the  attempt.  As 
it  happened,  I  concerned  myself  with  other  things, 
and  never  approached  very  near  the  Forest,  al 
though  never  very  far  from  it.  I  was  never  quite 
happy  unless  I  caught  frequent  glimpses  of  its  dis 
tant  boughs,  and  I  searched  more  and  more  ea 
gerly  for  those  who  had  left  some  record  of  their 
journeys  to  the  Forest,  and  of  their  life  within  its 
magical  boundaries.  I  discovered,  to  my  great 
joy,  that  the  libraries  were  full  of  books  which  had 
much  to  say  about  the  delights  of  Arden  :  its  en 
chanting  scenery  ;  the  music  of  its  brooks  ;  the 
sweet  and  refreshing  repose  of  its  recesses  ;  the 
noble  company  that  frequent  it.  I  soon  found  that 
all  the  greater  poets  have  been  there,  and  that  their 
lines  had  caught  the  magical  radiance  of  the  sky  ; 
and  many  of  the  prose  writers  showed  the  same 
familiarity  with  a  country  in  which  they  evidently 
found  whatever  was  sweetest  and  best  in  life.  I 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  125 

came  to  know  at  last  those  whose  knowledge  of 
Arden  was  most  complete,  and  I  put  them  in  a 
place  by  themselves  ;  a  corner  in  the  study  to 
which  Rosalind  and  I  went  for  the  books  we  read 
together.  I  would  gladly  give  a  list  of  these  works 
but  for  the  fact  I  have  already  hinted — that  those 
who  would  understand  their  references  to  Arden 
will  come  to  know  them  without  aid  from  me,  and 
that  those  who  would  not  understand  could  find 
nothing  in  them  even  if  I  should  give  page  and 
paragraph.  It  was  a  great  surprise  to  me,  when  I 
first  began  to  speak  of  the  Forest,  to  find  that  most 
people  scouted  the  very  idea  of  such  a  country  ; 
many  did  not  even  understand  what  I  meant. 
Many  a  time,  at  sunset,  when  the  light  has  lain  soft 
and  tender  on  the  distant  Forest,  I  have  pointed  it 
out,  only  to  be  told  that  what  I  thought  was  the 
Forest  was  a  splendid  pile  of  clouds,  a  shining  mass 
of  mist.  I  came  to  understand  at  last  that  Arden 
exists  only  for  a  few,  and  I  ceased  to  talk  about  it 
save  to  those  who  shared  my  faith.  Gradually  I 
came  to  number  among  my  friends  many  who  were 
in  the  habit  of  making  frequent  journeys  to  the 
Forest,  and  not  a  few  who  had  spent  the  greater 
part  of  their  lives  there.  I  remember  the  first  time 
I  saw  Rosalind  I  saw  the  light  of  the  Arden  sky  in 
her  eyes,  the  buoyancy  of  the  Arden  air  in  her 
step,  the  purity  and  freedom  of  the  Arden  life  in 
her  nature.  We  built  our  home  within  sight  of  the 
Forest,  and  there  was  never  a  day  that  we  did  not 


126  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

talk   about   and    plan    our    long-delayed   journey 
thither. 

"After  all,"  said  Rosalind,  on  that  first  glorious 
morning  in  Arden,  "as  I  look  back  I  see  that  we 
were  always  on  the  way  here." 


in. 

Well,  this  is  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

THE  first  sensation  that  comes  to  one  who  finds 
himself  at  last  within  the  boundaries  of  the  Forest 
of  Arden  is  a  delicious  sense  of  freedom.  I  am 
not  sure  that  there  is  not  a  certain  sympathy  with 
outlawry  in  that  first  exhilarating  consciousness  of 
having  gotten  out  of  the  conventional  world — the 
world  whose  chief  purpose  is  that  all  men  shall 
wear  the  same  coat,  eat  the  same  dinner,  repeat  the 
same  polite  commonplaces,  and  be  forgotten  at  last 
under  the  same  epitaph.  Forests  have  been  the 
natural  refuge  of  outlaws  from  the  earliest  time, 
and  among  the  most  respectable  persons  there  has 
always  been  an  ill-concealed  liking  for  Robin  Hood 
and  the  whole  fraternity  of  the  men  of  the  bow. 
Truth  is  above  all  things  characteristic  of  the 
dwellers  in  Arden,  and  it  must  be  frankly  confessed 
at  the  beginning,  therefore,  that  the  Forest  is  given 
over  entirely  to  outlaws  ;  those  who  have  commit 
ted  some  grave  offense  against  the  world  of  con 
ventions,  or  who  have  voluntarily  gone  into  exile 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  127 

out  of  sheer  liking  for  a  freer  life.  These  persons 
are  not  vulgar  law-breakers  ;  they  have  neither 
blood  on  their  hands  nor  ill-gotten  gains  in  their 
pockets ;  they  are,  on  the  contrary,  people  of  un 
commonly  honest  bearing  and  frank  speech.  Their 
offenses  evidently  impose  small  burden  on  their 
conscience,  and  they  have  the  air  of  those  who  have 
never  known  what  it  is  to  have  the  Furies  on  one's 
track.  Rosalind  was  struck  with  the  charming 
naturalness  and  gayety  of  every  one  we  met  in  our 
first  ramble  on  that  delicious  and  never-to-be-for 
gotten  morning  when  we  arrived  in  Arden.  There 
was  neither  assumption  or  diffidence  ;  there  was 
rather  an  entire  absence  of  any  kind  of  self-con 
sciousness.  Rosalind  had  fancied  that  we  might 
be  quite  alone  for  a  time,  and  we  had  expected  to 
have  a  few  days  to  ourselves.  We  had  even 
planned  in  our  romantic  moments — and  there  is 
always  a  good  deal  of  romance  among  the  dwellers 
in  Arden — a  continuation  of  our  wedding  journey 
during  the  first  week. 

"  It  will  be  so  much  more  delightful  than  be 
fore,"  suggested  Rosalind,  "because  nobody  will 
stare  at  us,  and  we  shall  have  the  whole  world  to 
ourselves."  In  that  last  phrase  I  recognized  the 
ideal  wedding  journey,  and  was  not  at  all  dismayed 
at  the  prospect  of  having  no  society  but  Rosalind's 
for  a  time.  But  all  such  anticipations  were  dis 
pelled  in  an  hour.  It  was  not  that  we  met  many 
people — it  is  one  of  the  delights  of  the  Forest  that 


128  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

one  finds  society  enough  to  take  away  the  sense  of 
isolation,  but  not  enough  to  destroy  the  sweetness 
of  solitude  ;  it  was  rather  that  the  few  we  met  made 
us  feel  at  once  tnat  we  had  equal  claim  with  them 
selves  or.  the  hospitality  of  the  place.  The  Forest 
was  not  only  free  to  every  comer,  but  it  evidently 
gave  peculiar  pleasure  to  those  who  were  living  in 
it  to  convey  a  sense  of  ownership  to  those  who  were 
arriving  for  the  first  time.  Rosalind  declared  that 
she  felt  as  much  at  home  as  if  she  had  been  born  there; 
and  she  added  that  she  was  glad  she  had  brought 
only  the  dress  she  wore.  I  was  a  little  puzzled 
by  the  last  remark  ;  it  seemed  not  entirely  logical. 
But  I  saw  presently  that  she  was  expressing  the 
fellowship  of  the  place  which  forbade  that  one 
should  possess  anything  that  was  not  in  use,  and 
that,  therefore,  was  not  adding  constantly  to  the 
common  stock  of  pleasure.  Concerning  the  feel 
ing  of  having  been  born  in  Arden,  I  became  con 
vinced  later  that  there  was  good  reason  for  believ 
ing  that  everybody  who  loved  the  place  had  been 
born  there,  and  that  this  fact  explained  the  home 
feeling  which  came  to  one  the  instant  he  set  foot 
within  the  Forest.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  only  place  I 
have  known  which  seemed  to  belong  to  me  and  to 
everybody  else  at  the  same  time  ;  in  which  I  felt 
no  alien  influence.  In  our  own  home  I  had  some 
thing  of  the  same  feeling,  but  when  I  looked  from 
a  window  or  set  foot  from  a  door  I  was  instantly 
oppressed  with  a  sense  of  foreign  ownership.  In 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  129 

the  great  world  how  little  could  I  call  my  own  ! 
Only  a  few  feet  of  soil  out  of  the  measureless  land 
scape  ;  only  a  few  trees  and  flowers  out  of  all  that 
boundless  foliage  !  I  seemed  driven  out  of  the 
heritage  to  which  I  was  born  ;  cheated  out  of  my 
birthright  in  the  beauty  of  the  field  and  the  mys 
tery  of  the  Forest  ;  put  off  with  the  beggarly  por 
tion  of  a  younger  son  when  I  ought  to  have  fallen 
heir  to  the  kingdom.  My  chief  joy  was  that  from 
the  little  space  I  called  my  own  I  could  see  the 
whole  heavens ;  no  man  could  rob  me  of  that 
splendid  vision. 

In  Arden,  however,  the  question  of  ownership 
never  comes  into  one's  thoughts ;  that  the  Forest 
belongs  to  you  gives  you  a  deep  joy,  but  there  is  a 
deeper  joy  in  the  consciousness  that  it  belongs  to 
everybody  else. 

The  sense  of  freedom,  which  comes  as  strongly 
to  one  in  Arden  as  the  smell  of  the  sea  to  one  who 
has  made  a  long  journey  from  the  inland,  hints,  I 
suppose,  at  the  offense  which  makes  the  dwellers 
within  its  boundaries  outlaws.  For  one  reason  or 
another,  they  have  all  revolted  against  the  rule  of 
the  world,  and  the  world  has  cast  them  out.  They 
have  offended  smug  respectability,  with  its  passion 
less  devotion  to  deportment  ;  they  have  outraged 
conventional  usage,  that  carefully  devised  system 
by  which  small  natures  attempt  to  bring  great  ones 
down  to  their  own  dimensions  ;  they  have  scandal 
ized  the  orthodoxy  which,  like  Memnon,  has  lost 


1 30  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

the  music  of  its  morning,  and  marvels  that  the 
world  no  longer  listens  ;  they  have  derided  vener 
able  prejudices — those  ugly  relics  by  which  some 
men  keep  in  remembrance  their  barbarous  an 
cestry  ;  they  have  refused  to  follow  flags  whose 
battle  were  won  or  lost  ages  ago  ;  they  have  scorned 
to  compromise  with  untruth,  to  go  with  the  crowd,  to 
acquiesce  in  evil  "  for  the  good  of  the  cause,"  to 
speak  when  they  ought  to  keep  silent  and  to  keep 
silent  when  they  ought  to  speak.  Truly  the  lists  of 
sins  charged  to  the  account  of  Arden  is  a  long  one, 
and  were  it  not  that  the  memory  of  the  world,  con 
cerned  chiefly  with  the  things  that  make  for  its 
comfort,  is  a  short  one,  it  would  go  ill  with  the 
lovers  of  the  Forest.  More  than  once  it  has  hap 
pened  that  some  offender  has  suffered  so  long  a 
banishment  that  he  has  taken  permanent  refuge  in 
Arden,  and  proved  his  citizenship  there  by  some 
act  worthy  of  its  glorious  privileges.  In  the  Forest 
one  comes  constantly  upon  traces  of  those  who, 
like  Dante  and  Milton,  have  found  there  a  refuge 
from  the  Philistinism  of  a  world  that  often  hates  its 
children  in  exact  proportion  to  their  ability  to  give 
it  light.  For  the  most  part,  however,  the  outlaws 
who  frequent  the  Forest  suffer  no  longer  banish 
ment  than  that  which  they  impose  on  themselves. 
They  come  and  go  at  their  own  sweet  will  ;  and 
their  coming,  I  suspect,  is  generally  a  matter  of 
their  own  choosing.  The  world  still  loves  dark 
ness  more  than  light ;  but  it  rarely  nowadays  falls 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  131 

upon  the  lantern-bearer  and  beats  the  life  out  of 
him,  as  in  "  the  good  old  times."  The  world  has 
grown  more  decent  and  polite,  although  still  at 
heart  no  doubt  the  bad  old  world  which  stoned  the 
prophets.  It  sneers  where  it  once  stoned  ;  it 
rejects  and  scorns  where  it  once  beat  and  burned. 
And  so  Arden  has  become  a  refuge,  not  so  much 
from  persecution  and  hatred  as  from  ignorance,  in 
difference,  and  the  small  wounds  of  small  minds 
bent  upon  stinging  that  which  they  cannot  destroy. 

IV. 

....  Fleet  the  time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in  the  golden 
world. 

ROSALIND  and  I  have  always  been  planning  to 
do  a  great  many  pleasant  things  when  we  had  more 
time.  During  the  busy  days  when  we  barely  found 
opportunity  to  speak  to  each  other  we  were  always 
thinking  of  the  better  days  when  we  should  be  able 
to  sit  hours  together  with  no  knock  at  the  door 
and  no  imperative  summons  from  the  kitchen. 
Some  man  of  sufficient  eminence  to  give  his  words 
currency  ought  to  define  life  as  a  series  of  inter 
ruptions.  There  are  a  good  many  valuable  and 
inspiring  things  which  can  only  be  done  when  one 
is  in  the  mood,  and  to  secure  a  mood  is  not  always 
an  easy  matter  ;  there  are  moods  which  are  as  coy 
as  the  most  high-spirited  woman,  and  must  be  wooed 
with  as  much  patience  and  tact  :  and  when  the 


132  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

illusive  prize  is  gained,  one  holds  it  by  the  frailest 
tenure.  An  interruption  diverts  the  current,  cuts 
the  golden  thread,  breaks  the  exquisite  harmony. 
I  have  often  thought  that  Dante  was  far  less  unfor 
tunate  than  the  world  has  judged  him  to  be.  If  he 
had  been  courted  and  crowned  instead  of  rejected 
and  exiled,  it  might  have  been  that  his  genius 
would  have  missed  the  conditions  which  gave  it 
immortal  utterance.  Left  to  himself,  he  had  only 
his  own  nature  to  reckon  with  ;  the  world  passed 
him  by,  and  left  him  to  the  companionship  of  his 
sublime  and  awful  dreams.  To  be  left  alone  with 
one's  self  is  often  the  highest  good  fortune.  More 
over,  I  detest  being  hurried  :  it  seems  to  me  the 
most  offensive  way  in  which  we  are  reminded  of 
our  mortality  ;  there  is  time  enough  if  we  know 
how  to  use  it.  People  who,  like  Goethe,  never 
rest  and  never  haste,  complete  their  work  and 
escape  the  friction  of  it. 

One  of  the  most  delightful  things  about  life  in 
Arden  is  the  absence  of  any  sense  of  haste  ;  life 
is  a  matter  of  being  rather  than  of  doing,  and 
one  shares  the  tranquillity  of  the  great  trees  that 
silently  expand  year  by  year.  The  fever  and  rest 
lessness  are  gone,  the  long  strain  of  nerve  and  will 
relaxed  ;  a  delicious  feeling  of  having  strength  and 
time  enough  to  live  one's  life  and  do  one's  work 
fills  one  with  a  deep  and  enduring  sense  of  repose. 

Rosalind,  who  had  been  busy  about  so  many 
things  that  I  sometimes  almost  lost  sight  of  her  for 


IN    THE   FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  133 

days  together,  found  time  to  take  long  walks  with 
me,  to  watch  the  birds  and  the  clouds,  and  talk  by 
the  hour  about  all  manner  of  pleasant  trifles.  I 
came  to  feel  after  a  time  that  just  what  I  antici 
pated  would  happen  in  Arden  had  happened.  I 
was  fast  becoming  acquainted  with  her.  We  spent 
days  together  in  the  most  delightful  half-vocal  and 
half-silent  fellowship ;  leaving  everything  to  the 
mood  of  the  hour  and  the  place.  Our  walks  took 
us  sometimes  into  lovely  recesses,  where  mutual 
confidences  seemed  as  natural  as  the  air  ;  some 
times  into  solitudes  where  talk  seemed  an  imper 
tinence,  and  we  were  silent  under  the  spell  of 
rustling  leaves  and  thrilling  melodies  coming  from 
we  knew  not  what  hidden  minstrelsy.  But  whether 
silent  or  speaking,  we  were  fast  coming  to  know 
each  other.  I  saw  many  traits  in  her,  many  charac 
teristic  habits  and  movements  which  I  had  never 
noted  before  ;  and  I  was  conscious  that  she  was 
making  similar  discoveries  in  me.  These  mutual 
revelations  absorbed  us  during  our  first  days  in  the 
Forest  ;  and  they  confirmed  the  impression  which 
I  brought  with  me  that  half  the  charm  of  people  is 
lost  under  the  pressure  of  work  and  the  irritation 
of  haste.  We  rarely  know  our  best  friends  on  their 
best  side  ;  our  vision  of  their  noblest  selves  is 
constantly  obscured  by  the  mists  of  preoccupation 
and  weariness. 

In  Arden  life  is  pitched  on  the  natural  key  ;  no 
body  is  ever  hurried  ;  nobody  is  ever  interrupted  ; 


T.J4  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

nobody  carries  his  work  like  a  pack  on  his  back 
instead  of  leaving  it  behind  him  as  the  sun  leaves 
the  earth  when  the  day  is  over  and  the  calm  stars 
shine  in  the  unbroken  silence  of  the  sky.  Rosalind 
and  I  were  entirely  conscious  of  the  transformation 
going  on  within  us,  and  were  not  slow  to  submit 
ourselves  to  its  beneficent  influence.  We  felt  that 
Arden  would  not  put  all  its  resources  into  our 
hand  until  we  had  shaken  off  the  dust  and  parted 
from  the  fret  of  the  world  we  had  left  behind. 

In  those  first  inspiring  days  we  went  oftenest  to 
the  heart  of  the  pines,  where  the  moss  grew  so  deep 
that  our  movements  were  noiseless  ;  where  the  light 
fell  in  subdued  and  gentle  tones  among  the  closely 
clustered  trees  ;  and  where  no  sound  ever  reached 
us  save  the  organ  music  of  the  great  boughs  when 
the  wind  evoked  their  sublime  harmonies.  Many 
a  time,  as  we  have  sat  silent  while  the  tones  of  that 
majestic  symphony  rose  and  fell  about  us,  we 
seemed  to  become  a  part  of  the  scene  itself ;  we 
felt  the  unfathomed  depth  of  a  music  produced  by 
no  conscious  thought,  wrought  out  by  no  conscious 
toil,  but  akin,  in  its  spontaneity  and  naturalness, 
with  the  fragrance  of  the  flower.  And  with  these 
thrilling  notes  there  came  to  us  the  thought  of  the 
calm,  reposeful,  irresistible  growth  of  Nature ; 
never  hasting,  never  at  rest ;  the  silent  spreading 
of  the  tree,  the  steady  burning  of  the  star,  the 
noiseless  flow  of  the  river  !  Was  not  this  sublime 
unconsciousness  of  time,  this  glorious  appropria- 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  135 

tion  of  eternity,  something  we  had  missed  all  our 
lives,  and,  in  missing  it,  had  lost  our  birthright  of 
quiet  hours,  calm  thought,  sweet  fellowship,  ripen 
ing  character  ?  The  fever  and  tumult  of  the  world 
we  had  left  were  discords  in  a  strain  that  had  never 
yielded  its  music  before. 

For  nature  beats  in  perfect  tune, 
And  rounds  with  rhyme  her  every  rune, 
Whether  she  work  in  land  or  sea, 
Or  hide  underground  her  alchemy. 
Thou  canst  not  wave  thy  staff  in  air, 

Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake, 
But  it  carves  the  bow  of  beauty  there, 

And  the  ripples  in  rhymes  the  oars  forsake. 

After  one  of  these  long,  delicious  days  in  the 
heart  of  the  pines,  Rosalind  slipped  her  hand  in 
mine  as  we  walked  slowly  homeward. 

"  This  is  the  first  day  of  my  life,"  she  said. 


v. 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 

IT  was  one  of  those  entrancing  mornings  when 
the  earth  seems  to  have  been  made  over  under 
cover  of  night,  and  one  drinks  the  first  draft  of  a 
new  experience  when  he  sees  it  by  the  light  of  a 
new  day.  Such  mornings  are  not  uncommon  in 
Arden,  where  the  nightly  dews  work  a  perpetual 


136  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

miracle  of  freshness.  On  this  particular  morning 
we  had  strayed  long  and  far,  the  silence  and  soli 
tude  of  the  woods  luring  us  hour  after  hour  with 
unspoken  promises  to  the  imagination.  We  had 
come  at  length  to  a  place  so  secluded,  so  remote 
from  stir  and  sound,  that  one  might  dream  there  of 
the  sacredness  of  ancient  oracles  and  the  revels  of 
ancient  gods. 

Rosalind  had  gathered  wild  flowers  along  the 
way,  and  sat  at  the  base  of  a  great  tree  intently 
disentangling  her  treasures.  With  that  figure  be 
fore  me,  I  thought  of  nearer  and  more  sacred 
things  than  the  old  woodland  gods  that  might  have 
strayed  that  way  centuries  ago  ;  I  had  no  need  to 
recall  the  vanished  times  and  faiths  to  interpret  the 
spirit  of  an  hour  so  far  from  the  commonplaces  of 
human  speech,  so  free  from  the  passing  moods  of 
human  life.  The  sweet  unconsciousness  of  that 
face,  bent  over  the  mass  of  wild  flowers,  and  akin 
to  them  in  its  unspoiled  loveliness,  was  to  that 
hour  and  place  like  the  illuminated  capital  in  the 
old  missal ;  a  ray  of  color  which  unlocked  the  dark 
mystery  of  the  text.  When  one  can  see  the  loveli 
ness  of  a  wild  flower,  and  feel  the  absorbing  charm 
of  its  sentiment,  one  is  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of 
Nature. 

As  these  fancies  chased  one  another  across  my 
mind,  lying  there  at  full  length  on  the  moss,  I,  too, 
seemed  to  lose  all  consciousness  that  I  had  ever 
touched  life  at  any  point  than  this,  or  that  any 


IN   THE   FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  137 

other  hour  had  ever  pressed  its  cup  of  experience 
to  my  lips.  The  great  world  of  which  I  was  once 
part  disappeared  out  of  memory  like  a  mist  that 
recedes  into  a  faint  cloud  and  lies  faint  and  far  on 
the  boundaries  of  the  day  ;  my  own  personal  life,  to 
which  I  had  been  bound  by  such  a  multitude  of  gos 
samer  threads  that  when  I  tried  to  unloose  one  I 
seemed  to  weave  a  hundred  in  its  place,  seemed  to 
sink  below  the  surface  of  consciousness.  I  ceased  to 
think,  to  feel  ;  I  was  conscious  only  of  the  vast  and 
glorious  world  of  tree  and  sky  which  surrounded 
me.  I  felt  a  thrill  of  wonder  that  I  should  be  so 
placed.  I  had  often  lain  thus  under  other  trees, 
but  never  in  such  a  mood  as  this.  It  was  as  if  I 
had  detached  myself  from  the  hitherto  unbroken 
current  of  my  personal  life,  and  by  some  mira 
cle  of  that  marvelous  place  become  part  of  the 
inarticulate  life  of  Nature.  Clouds  and  trees,  dim 
vistas  of  shadow  and  flower-starred  space  of  sun 
light,  were  no  longer  alien  to  me  ;  I  was  akin  with 
the  vast  and  silent  movement  of  things  which 
encompassed  me.  No  new  sound  came  to  me,  no 
new  sight  broke  on  my  vision  ;  but  I  heard  with  ears, 
and  I  saw  with  eyes,  to  which  all  other  sounds  and 
sights  had  ceased  to  be.  I  cannot  translate  into 
words  the  mystery  and  the  thrill  of  that  hour  when, 
for  the  first  time,  I  gave  myself  wholly  into  the 
keeping  of  Nature,  and  she  received  me  as  herchild. 
What  I  felt,  what  I  saw  and  heard,  belong  only  to 
that  place  ;  outside  the  Forest  of  Arden  they  are 


138  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

incomprehensible.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  I  had 
parted  with  all  my  limitations,  and  freed  myself 
from  all  my  bonds  of  habit  and  ignorance  and  prej 
udice  ;  I  was  no  longer  worn  and  spent  with  work 
and  emotion  and  impression  ;  I  was  no  longer 
prisoned  within  the  iron  bars  of  my  own  person 
ality.  I  was  as  free  as  the  bird  ;  I  was  as  little 
bound  to  the  past  as  the  cloud  that  an  hour  ago 
was  breathed  out  of  the  heart  of  the  sea  ;  I  was  as 
joyous,  as  unconscious,  as  wholly  given  to  the  rapt 
ure  of  the  hour  as  if  I  had  come  into  a  world 
where  freedom  and  joy  were  an  inalienable  and 
universal  possession.  I  did  not  speculate  about 
the  great  fleecy  clouds  that  moved  like  galleons  in 
the  ethereal  sea  above  me  ;  I  simply  felt  their 
celestial  beauty,  the  radiancy  of  their  unchecked 
movement,  the  freedom  and  splendor  of  the  inex 
haustible  play  of  life  of  which  they  were  part.  I 
asked  no  questions  of  myself  about  the  great  trees 
that  wove  the  garments  of  the  magical  forest  about 
me  ;  I  felt  the  stir  of  their  ancient  life,  rooted  in 
the  centuries  that  had  left  no  record  in  that  place 
save  the  added  girth  and  the  discarded  leaf  ;  I  had 
no  thought  about  the  bird  whose  note  thrilled  the 
forest  save  the  rapture  of  pouring  out  without 
measure  or  thought  the  joy  that  was  in  me  ;  I  felt 
the  vast  irresistible  movement  of  life  rolling,  wave 
after  wave,  out  of  the  unseen  seas  beyond,  obliter 
ating  the  faint  divisions  by  which,  in  this  working 
world,  we  count  the  days  of  our  toil,  and  making 


IN    THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  I39 

all  the  ages  one  unbroken  growth  ;  I  felt  the  meas 
ureless  calm,  the  sublime  repose,  of  that  uninter 
rupted  expansion  of  form  and  beauty,  from  flower 
to  star  and  from  bird  to  cloud  ;  I  felt  the  mighty 
impulse  of  that  force  which  lights  the  sun  in  its 
track  and  sets  the  stars  to  mark  the  boundaries  of 
its  way.  Unbroken  repose,  unlimited  growth,  in 
exhaustible  life,  measureless  force,  unsearchable 
beauty — who  shall  feel  these  things  and  not  know 
that  there  are  no  words  for  them  !  And  yet  in 
Arden  they  are  part  of  every  man's  life  ! 

And  all  the  time  Rosalind  sat  weaving  her  wild 
flowers  into  a  loose  wreath. 

"  I  must  not  take  them  from  this  place, "she  said, 
as  she  bound  them  about  the  venerable  tree,  as  one 
would  bind  the  fancy  of  the  hour  to  some  eternal 
truth. 

"  Yesterday,"  she  added,  as  she  sat  down  again 
and  shook  the  stray  leaves  and  petals  from  her 
lap — "  yesterday  was  the  first  day  of  my  life  :  to 
day  is  the  second." 

It  is  one  of  the  delights  of  Arden  that  one  does 
not  need  to  put  his  whole  thought  into  words  there  ; 
half  the  need  of  language  vanishes  when  we  say 
only  what  we  mean,  and  what  we  say  is  heard  with 
sympathy  and  intelligence.  Rosalind  and  I  were 
thinking  the  same  thought.  Yesterday  we  had 
discovered  that  an  open  mind,  freedom  from  work 
and  care  and  turmoil,  make  it  possible  for  people 
to  be  their  true  selves  and  to  know  each  other. 


140  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

To-day  we  had  discovered  that  nature  reveals  her 
self  only  to  the  open  mind  and  heart ;  to  all  others 
she  is  deaf  and  dumb.  The  worldling  who  seeks 
her  never  sees  so  much  as  the  hem  of  her  garment ; 
the  egotist,  the  self-engrossed  man,  searches  in 
vain  for  her  counsel  and  consolation  ;  the  over 
anxious,  fretful  soul  finds  her  indifferent  and 
incommunicable.  We  may  seek  her  far  and  wide, 
with  minds  intent  upon  other  things,  and  she  will 
forever  elude  us  ;  but  on  the  morning  we  open 
our  windows  with  a  free  mind,  she  is  there  to  break 
for  us  the  seal  of  her  treasures  and  to  pour  out  the 
perfume  of  her  flowers.  She  is  cold,  remote,  inac 
cessible  only  so  long  as  we  close  the  doors  of  our 
hearts  and  minds  to  her.  With  the  drudges  and 
slaves  of  mere  getting  and  saving  she  has  nothing 
in  common  ;  but  with  those  who  hold  their  souls 
above  the  price  of  the  world  and  the  bribe  of  suc 
cess  she  loves  to  share  her  repose,  her  strength, 
and  her  beauty.  In  Arden  Rosalind  and  I  cared 
as  little  for  the  world  we  had  left  as  children  intent 
upon  daisies  care  for  the  dust  of  the  road  out  of 
which  they  have  come  into  the  wide  meadows. 


IN  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  141 

JHL 

Hoe  feel  we  bat  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  season's  difference,  as  the  icy  fang 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter  wind. 
Which,  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body. 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say. 
This  is  no  flattery  :  these  arc  counselors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 

IF  the  ideal  conditions  of  life,  of  which  most  of 
as  dream,  could  be  realized,  the  result  would  be  a 
padded  and  luxurious  existence,  well-housed,  well- 
fed,  well-dressed,  with  all  the  winds  of  heaven  tem 
pered  to  indolence  and  cowardice.  We  are  saved 
from  ajjgoint*>  shame^by  the  consciousness  that  if 
such  a  life  were  possible'we  should  speedily  revolt 
against  the  comforts  that  flattered  the  body  while 
they  ignored  the  soul.  In  Ardea  there  is  no  such 
compromise  with  our  immoral  desires  to  get  results 
without  work/to  buy  withouT  paring  for  what  we 
receive.  Nature  keeps  no  running  accounts  and 
suffers  no  man  to  get  in  her  debt ;  she  deals  with 
us  on  the  principles  of  immutable  righteousness ; 
she  treats  us  as  her  equals,  and  demands  from  us 
an  equivalent  for  every  gift  or  grace  of  sight  or 
sound  she  bestows.  She  rejects  contemptuously 
the  advances  of  the  weaklings"' who  aspire  to  become 
her  beneficiaries  without  having  made  good  their 
cjajnrby  some  service  or  self-denial ;  she  rewards 
those  only  who,  like  herself,  find  music  in  the  tern- 


142  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

pest  as  well  as  in  the  summer  wind  ;  joy  in  arduous 
service  as  well  as  in  careless  ease.  A  world  in 
which  there  were  no  labors  to  be  accomplished,  no 
burdens  to  be  borne,  no  storms  to  be  endured, 
would  be  a  world  without  true  joy,  honest 
pleasure,  or  noble  aspiration.  It  would  be  a 
fool's  paradise. 

The  Forest  of  Arden  is  not  without  its  changes 
of  weather  and  season.  Rosalind  and  I  had  fan 
cied  that  it  was  always  summer  there,  and  that  sun 
light  reigned  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  ;  if  we 
had  been  told  that  storms  sometimes  overshadowed 
it,  and  that  the  icy  fang  of  winter  is  felt  there,  we 
should  have  doubted  the  report.  We  had  a  good 
deal  to  learn  when  we  first  went  to  Arden  ;  in  fact, 
we  still  have  a  great  deal  to  learn  about  this  won 
derful  country,  in  which  so  many  of  the  ideals  and 
standards  with  which  we  were  once  familiar  are 
reversed.  It  is  one  of  the  blessed  results  of  living 
in  the  Forest  that  one  is  more  and  more  conscious 
that  he  does  not  know  and  more  and  more  eager 
to  learn.  There  are  no  shams  of  any  sort  in 
Arden,  and  all  pride  in  concealing  one's  ignorance 
disappears  ;  one's  chief  concern  is  to  be  known 
precisely  as  he  is.  We  were  a  little  sensitive  at 
first,  a  little  disposed  to  be  cautious  about  asking 
questions  that  might  reveal  our  ignorance  ;  but 
we  speedily  lost  the  false  shame  we  had  brought 
with  us  from  a  world  where  men  study  to  conceal, 
as  a  means  of  protecting,  the  things  that  are  most 


IN   THE   FGREST  OF  ARDEN.  143 

precious  to  them.  When  we  learned  that  in  the 
Forest  nobody  vulgarizes  one's  affairs  by  making 
them  matter  of  common  talk,  that  all  the  mean 
nesses  of  slander  and  gossip  and  misinterpretation 
are  unknown,  and  that  charity,  courtesy,  and 
honor  are  the  unfailing  law  of  intercourse,  we 
threw  down  our  reserves  and  experienced  the  re 
freshing  freedom  and  sympathy  of  full  knowledge 
between  man  and  man. 

After  a  long  succession  of  golden  days  we  awoke 
one  morning  to  the  familiar  sound  of  rain  on  the 
roof  ;  there  was  no  mistake  about  it ;  it  was  raining 
in  Arden  !  Rosalind  was  so  incredulous  that  I 
could  see  she  doubted  if  she  were  awake  ;  and 
when  she  had  satisfied  herself  of  that  fact  she  be 
gan  to  ask  herself  whether  we  had  been  really  in 
the  Forest  at  all ;  whether  we  had  not  been  dream 
ing  in  a  kind  of  double  consciousness,  and  had 
now  come  to  the  awakening  which  should  rob  us 
of  this  golden  memory.  At  last  we  recognized  the 
fact  that  we  were  still  in  Arden,  and  that  it  was 
raining.  It  was  a  melancholy  awakening,  and  we 
were  silent  and  depressed  at  breakfast  ;  for  the 
first  time  no  birds  sang,  and  no  sunlight  flickered 
through  the  leaves  and  brought  the  day  smiling  to 
our  very  door.  The  rain  fell  steadily,  and  when 
the  wind  swept  through  the  trees  a  sound  like  a 
sob  went  up  from  the  Forest.  After  breakfast,  for 
lack  of  active  occupation,  we  lighted  a  few  sticks 
in  the  rough  fireplace,  and  found  ourselves  gradu- 


144  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

ally  drawn  into  the  circle  of  cheer  in  the  little 
room.  The  great  world  of  Nature  was  for  a  mo 
ment  out  of  doors,  and  there  seemed  no  incongru 
ity  in  talking  about  our  own  experiences  ;  we  re 
called  the  days  in  the  world  we  had  left  behind  ; 
we  remembered  the  faces  of  our  neighbors  ;  we 
reminded  each  other  of  the  incidents  of  our  jour 
ney  ;  we  retold,  in  antiphonal  fashion,  the  story  of 
our  stay  in  the  Forest ;  we  grew  eloquent  as  we 
described,  one  after  another,  the  noble  persons  we 
had  met  there  ;  our  hearts  kindled  as  we  became 
conscious  of  the  wonderful  enrichment  and  en 
largement  of  life  that  had  come  to  us  ;  and  as  the 
varied  splendors  of  the  days  and  scenes  of  Arden 
returned  in  our  memories,  the  spell  of  the  Forest 
came  upon  us,  and  the  mysterious  cadence  of  the 
rain,  falling  from  leaf  to  leaf,  added  another  and 
deeper  tone  to  the  harmony  of  our  Forest  life. 
The  gloom  had  gone  ;  we  had  all  the  delight  of  a 
new  experience  in  our  hearts. 

"I  am  glad  it  rains,"  Rosalind  said,  as  she  gave 
the  fire  one  of  her  vigorous  stirrings  ;  "  I  am  glad 
it  rains  :  I  don't  think  we  should  have  realized 
how  lovely  it  is  here  if  we  were  not  shut  in  from 
time  to  time.  One  is  played  upon  by  so  many  im 
pressions  that  one  must  escape  from  them  to  under 
stand  how  beautiful  they  are.  And  then  I'm  not 
sure  that  even  dark  days  and  rain  have  not  some 
thing  which  sunshine  and  clear  skies  could  not 
give  us."  As  usual,  Rosalind  had  spoken  my 


IN   THE   FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  145 

thought  before  I  had  made  it  quite  clear  to  my 
self  ;  I  began  to  feel  the  peculiar  delight  of  our 
comfort  in  the  heart  of  that  great  forest  when  the 
storm  was  abroad.  The  monotone  of  the  rain  be 
came  rythmic  with  some  ancient,  primeval  melody, 
which  the  woods  sang  before  their  solitude  had 
been  invaded  by  the  eager  feet  of  men  always 
searching  for  something  which  they  do  not  possess. 
I  felt  the  spell  of  that  mighty  life  which  includes 
the  tempest  and  the  tumult  of  winds  and  waves 
among  the  myriad  voices  with  which  it  speaks  its 
marvelous  secret.  Half  the  meaning  would  go  out 
of  Nature  if  no  storms  ever  dimmed  the  light  of 
stars  or  vexed  the  calm  of  summer  seas.  It  is  the 
infinite  variety  of  Nature  which  fits  response  to 
every  need  and  mood,  renews  forever  the  freshness 
of  contact  with  her,  and  holds  us  by  a  power  of 
which  we  never  weary  because  we  never  exhaust  its 
resources. 

"  After  all,  Rosalind,"  I  said,  "  it  was  not  the 
storms  and  the  cold  which  made  our  old  life  hard, 
and  gave  Nature  an  unfriendly  aspect ;  it  was  the 
things  in  our  human  experience  which  gave  tem 
pest  and  winter  a  meaning  not  their  own.  In  a 
world  in  which  all  hearts  beat  true,  and  all  hands 
were  helpful,  there  would  be  no  real  hardship  in 
Nature.  It  is  the  loss,  sorrow,  weariness,  and  dis 
appointment  of  life  which  give  dark  days  their 
gloom,  and  cold  its  icy  edge,  and  work  its  bitter 
ness.  The  real  sorrows  of  life  are  not  of  Nature's 


146  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

making  ;  if  faithlessness  and  treachery  and  every 
sort  of  baseness  were  taken  out  of  human  lives,  we 
should  find  only  a  healthy  and  vigorous  joy  in  such 
hardship  as  Nature  imposes  upon  us.  Upon  men 
of  sound,  sweet  life,  she  lays  only  such  burdens  as 
strength  delights  to  carry,  because  in  so  doing  it 
increases  itself." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Rosalind.  "  The  day  is 
dark  only  when  the  mind  is  dark  ;  all  weathers  are 
pleasant  when  the  heart  is  at  rest.  There  are  rainy 
days  in  Arden,  but  no  gloomy  ones  ;  there  are 
probably  cold  days,  but  none  that  chill  the  soul." 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  Rosalind's  smile  or 
the  sudden  breaking  of  the  sun  through  the  clouds 
that  made  the  room  brilliant ;  probably  it  was  both. 
Rosalind  opened  the  lattice,  and  I  saw  that  the  rain 
had  ceased.  The  drops  still  hung  on  every  leaf, 
but  the  clouds  were  breaking  into  great  shining 
masses,  and  the  blue  of  the  sky  was  of  unsearchable 
purity  and  depth.  The  sun  poured  a  flood  of  light 
into  the  heart  of  the  Forest,  and  suddenly  every 
tiny  drop,  that  a  moment  ago  might  have  seemed  a 
symbol  of  sorrow,  held  the  radiant  sun  on  its  little 
disk,  and  every  sphere  shone  as  if  a  universe  of 
fairy  creation  had  been  suddenly  breathed  into 
being.  And  the  splendor  touched  Rosalind  also. 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  147 

VII. 

....   Pray  you,  if  you  know, 
Where  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest  stands 
A  sheep-cote  fenc'd  about  with  olive  trees  ? 
***** 

The  rank  of  osiers  by  the  murmuring  stream 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place. 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself. 

YEARS  ago,  when  we  were  planning  to  build  a 
certain  modest  little  house,  Rosalind  and  I  found 
endless  delight  in  the  pleasures  of  anticipation. 
By  day  and  by  night  our  talk  came  back  to  the 
home  we  were  to  make  for  ourselves.  We  dis 
cussed  plan  after  plan  and  found  none  quite  to  our 
mind  ;  we  examined  critically  the  houses  we 
visited  ;  we  pored  over  books  ;  we  laid  the  ex 
perience  of  our  friends  under  contribution  ;  and 
when  at  last  we  had  agreed  upon  certain  essentials 
we  called  an  architect  to  our  aid,  and  fondly  im 
agined  that  now  the  prelude  of  discussion  and 
delay  was  over,  we  should  find  unalloyed  delight  in 
seeing  our  imaginary  home  swiftly  take  form  and 
become  a  thing  of  reality.  Alas  for  our  hopes ! 
Expense  followed  fast  upon  expense  and  delay 
upon  delay.  There  were  endless  troubles  with 
masons  and  carpenters  and  plumbers  ;  and  when 
our  dream  was  at  last  realized,  the  charm  of  it  had 
somehow  vanished  ;  so  much  anxiety,  care,  and 
vexation  had  gone  into  the  process  of  building  that 


148  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

the  completed  structure  seemed  to  be  a  monument 
of  our  toil  rather  than  a  refuge  from  the  world. 

After  this  sad  experience,  Rosalind  and  I  con 
tented  ourselves  with  building  castles  in  Spain  ; 
and  so  great  has  been  our  devotion  to  this  occupa 
tion  that  we  are  already  joint  owners  of  immense 
possessions  in  that  remote  and  beautiful  country. 
It  is  a  singular  circumstance  that  the  dwellers  in 
Arden,  almost  without  exception,  are  holders  of 
estates  in  Spain.  I  have  never  seen  any  of  these 
splendid  properties  ;  in  fact,  Rosalind  and  I  have 
never  seen  our  own  castles  ;  but  I  have  heard  very 
full  and  graphic  descriptions  of  those  distant  seats. 
In  imagination  I  have  often  seen  the  great  piles 
crowning  the  crests  of  wooded  hills,  whence  noble 
parks  and  vast  landscapes  lay  spread  out ;  I  have 
been  thrilled  by  the  notes  of  the  hunting-horn  and 
discerned  from  afar  the  cavalcade  of  beautiful 
women  and  gallant  men  winding  its  way  to  the 
gates  of  the  courtyard  ;  I  have  seen  splendid  ban 
ners  afloat  from  turret  and  casement ;  I  have  seen 
lights  flashing  at  night  and  heard  faint  murmurs  of 
music  and  laughter.  Truly  they  are  fortunate  who 
own  castles  in  Spain  ! 

In  the  Forest  of  Arden  there  is  no  such  brave 
show  of  battlement  and  rampart.  In  all  our 
rambles  we  never  came  upon  a  castle  or  palace;  in 
fact,  so  far  as  I  remember,  no  one  ever  spoke  of 
such  structures.  They  seem  to  have  no  place 
there.  Nor  is  it  hard  to  understand  this  singular 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  149 

divergence  from  the  ways  of  a  world  whose  habits 
and  standards  are  continually  reversed  in  the 
Forest.  In  castle  and  palace,  the  wealth  and 
splendor  of  life, — everything  that  gives  it  grace 
and  beauty  to  the  eye, — are  treasured  within  massive 
walls  and  protected  from  the  common  gaze  and 
touch.  Every  great  park,  with  its  reaches  of 
inviting  sward  and  its  groups  of  noble  trees,  seems 
to  say  to  those  who  pass  along  the  highway  :  "  We 
are  too  rare  for  your  using."  Every  stately 
palace,  with  its  wonderful  paintings  and  hangings, 
its  sculpture  and  furnishings,  locks  its  massive 
gates  against  the  great  world  without,  as  if  that 
which  it  guards  were  too  precious  for  common 
eyes.  In  Arden  no  one  dreams  of  fencing  off  a 
lovely  bit  of  open  meadow  or  a  cluster  of  great 
trees  ;  private  ownership  is  unknown  in  the  Forest. 
Those  who  dwell  there  are  tenants  in  common  of  a 
grander  estate  than  was  ever  conquered  by  sword, 
purchased  by  gold,  or  bequeathed  by  the  laws  of 
descent.  There  are  homes  for  privacy,  for  the 
sanctities  of  love  and  friendship  ;  but  the  wealth 
of  life  is  common  to  all.  Instead  of  elegant  houses, 
and  a  meager,  inferior  public  life,  as  in  the  great 
cities  of  the  world,  there  are  modest  homes  and  a 
noble  common  life.  If  the  houses  in  our  cities 
were  simple  and  home-like  in  their  appointments, 
and  all  their  treasures  of  art  and  beauty  were 
lodged  in  noble  structures,  open  to  every  citizen, 
the  world  would  know  something  of  the  habits  of 


I50  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

those  who  find  in  Arden  that  satisfying  thought  of 
life  which  is  denied  them  among  men.  Modera 
tion,  simplicity,  frugality  for  our  private  and  per 
sonal  wants  ;  splendid  profusion,  noble  lavishness, 
beautiful  luxury  for  that  common  life  which  now 
languishes  because  so  few  recognize  its  needs. 
When  will  the  world  learn  the  real  lesson  of  civili 
zation,  and,  for  the  cheap  and  ignoble  aspect  of 
modern  cities,  bring  back  the  stateliness  of  Rome 
and  the  beauty  of  that  wonderful  city  whose  poetry 
and  art  were  but  the  voices  of  her  common  life  ? 

The  murmuring  stream  at  our  door  in  Arden 
whispered  to  us  by  day  and  by  night  the  sweet 
secret  of  the  happiness  in  the  Forest,  where  no 
man  strives  to  outshine  his  neighbor  or  to  encum 
ber  the  free  and  joyous  play  of  his  life  with  those 
luxuries  which  are  only  another  name  for  care. 
Our  modest  little  home  sheltered  but  did  not 
enslave  us ;  it  held  a  door  open  for  all  the  sweet 
ministries  of  affection,  but  it  was  barred  against 
anxiety  and  care ;  birds  sang  at  its  flower-em 
bowered  windows,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  beauti 
ful  days  lingered  there,  but  no  sound  from  the 
world  of  those  that  strive  and  struggle  ever  entered. 
We  were  joyous  as  children  in  a  home  which  pro 
tected  our  bodies  while  it  set  our  spirits  at  liberty  ; 
which  gave  us  the  sweetness  of  rest  and  seclusion, 
while  it  left  us  free  to  use  the  ample  leisure  of  the 
Forest  and  to  drink  deep  of  its  rich  and  healthful 
life.  Vine-covered,  overshadowed  by  the  pine, 


IN    THE    FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  151 

with  the  olive  standing  in  friendly  neighborhood, 
our  home  in  Arden  seemed  at  the  same  time  part 
of  the  Forest  and  part  of  ourselves.  If  it  had 
grown  out  of  the  soil,  it  could  not  have  fitted  into 
the  landscape  with  less  suggestion  of  artifice  and 
construction  ;  indeed,  Nature  had  furnished  all  the 
materials,  and  when  the  simple  structure  was  com 
plete  she  claimed  it  again  and  made  it  her  own 
with  endless  device  of  moss  and  vine.  Without,  it 
seemed  part  of  the  Forest ;  within,  it  seemed  the 
visible  history  of  our  life  there.  Friends  came  and 
went  through  the  unlatched  door  ;  morning  broke 
radiant  through  the  latticed  window  ;  the  seasons 
enfolded  it  with  their  changing  life  ;  our  own 
fellowship  of  mind  and  heart  made  it  unspeakably 
sacred.  Love  and  loyalty  within  ;  noble  friends  at 
the  hearthstone  ;  soft  or  shining  heavens  above ; 
mystery  of  forest  and  music  of  stream  without : 
this  is  home  in  Arden. 


VIII. 
....  books  in  the  running  brooks. 

IN  the  days  before  we  went  to  Arden,  Rosalind 
and  I  had  often  wondered  what  books  we  should 
find  there,  and  we  had  anticipated  with  the  keenest 
curiosity  that  in  the  mere  presence  or  absence  of 
certain  books  we  should  discover  at  last  the  final 
principle  of  criticism,  the  absolute  standard  of  lit- 


152  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

erary  art.  Many  a  time  as  we  sat  before  the  study 
fire  and  finished  the  reading  of  some  volume  that 
had  yielded  us  unmixed  delight,  we  had  said  to 
each  other  that  we  should  surely  find  it  in  Arden, 
and  read  it  again  in  an  atmosphere  in  which  the 
most  delicate  and  beautiful  meanings  would  be 
come  as  clear  as  the  exquisite  tracery  of  frost 
on  the  study  windows.  That  we  should  find  all 
the  classics  there  we  had  not  the  least  doubt ; 
who  could  imagine  a  community  of  intelligent 
persons  without  Homer  and  Dante  and  Shake 
speare  and  Wordsworth  !  How  the  volumes 
would  be  housed  we  did  not  try  to  divine  ;  but 
that  we  should  find  them  there  we  did  not  think 
of  doubting.  Our  chief  thought  was  of  the  prin 
ciple  of  selection,  long  sought  after  by  lovers 
of  books  but  never  yet  found,  which  we  were 
certain  would  be  easily  discovered  when  we  came 
to  look  along  the  shelves  of  the  libraries  in  Ar 
den.  With  what  delight  we  anticipated  the  long 
days  when  we  should  read  together  again,  and 
amid  such  novel  surroundings,  the  books  we  loved  ! 
For,  although  our  home  contained  few  luxuries,  it 
had  fed  the  mind  ;  there  was  not  a  great  soul  in 
literature  whose  name  was  not  on  the  shelves  of 
our  library,  and  the  companionships  of  that  room 
made  our  quiet  home  more  rich  in  gracious  and 
noble  influences  than  many  a  palace. 

And  yet  we    had  been    in    the    Forest    several 
months  before    we   even   thought    of   books ;    so 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  153 

absorbed  were  we  in  the  noble  life  of  the  place, 
in  the  inspiring  society  about  us.  There  came  a 
morning,  however,  when,  as  I  looked  out  into  the 
shadows  of  the  deep  woods,  I  recalled  a  wonder 
ful  line  of  Dante's  that  must  have  come  to  the 
poet  as  he  passed  through  some  silent  and  somber 
woodland  path.  Suddenly  I  remembered  that 
months  had  passed  since  we  had  opened  a  book  ; 
we  whose  most  inspiring  hours  had  once  been 
those  in  which  we  read  together  from  some  familiar 
page.  For  an  instant  I  felt  something  akin  to  re 
morse  ;  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  disloyal  to 
friends  who  had  never  failed  me  in  any  time  of 
need.  But  as  I  meditated  on  this  strange  for- 
getfulness  of  mine,  I  saw  that  in  Arden  books 
have  no  place  and  serve  no  purpose.  Why  should 
one  read  a  translation  when  the  original  work  lies 
open  and  legible  before  him  ?  Why  should  one 
watch  the  reflections  in  the  shadowy  surface  of 
the  lake  when  the  heavens  shine  above  him  ? 
Why  should  one  linger  before  the  picturesque 
landscape  which  art  has  imperfectly  transferred  to 
canvas  when  the  scene,  with  all  its  elusive  play 
of  light  and  shade,  lies  outspread  before  him  ? 
I  became  conscious  that  in  Arden  one  lives  ha 
bitually  in  the  world  which  books  are  always  striv 
ing  to  portray  and  interpret ;  that  one  sees  with 
his  own  eyes  all  that  the  eyes  of  the  keenest  ob 
server  have  ever  seen ;  that  one  feels  in  his  own 
soul  all  the  greatest  soul  has  ever  felt.  That 


154  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

which  in  the  outer  world  most  men  know  only 
by  report,  in  Arden  each  one  knows  for  himself. 
The  stories  of  travelers  cease  to  interest  us  when 
we  are  at  last  within  the  borders  of  the  strange, 
far  country. 

Books  are,  at  the  best,  faint  and  imperfect  tran 
scriptions  of  Nature  and  life  ;  when  one  comes  to 
see  Nature  as  she  is  with  his  own  eyes,  and  to 
enter  into  the  secrets  of  life,  all  transcriptions  be 
come  inadequate.  He  who  has  heard  the  mysteri 
ous  and  haunting  monotone  of  the  sea  will  never 
rest  content  with  the  noblest  harmony  in  which  the 
composer  seeks  to  blend  those  deep,  elusive  tones  ; 
he  who  has  sat  hour  by  hour  under  the  spell  of  the 
deep  woods  will  feel  that  spell  shorn  of  its  magical 
power  in  the  noblest  verse  that  ever  sought  to  con 
tain  and  express  it ;  he  who  has  once  looked  with 
clear,  unflinching  gaze  into  the  depths  of  human 
life  will  find  only  vague  shadows  of  the  mighty 
realities  in  the  greatest  drama  and  fiction.  The 
eternal  struggle  of  art  is  to  utter  these  unutterable 
things ;  the  immortal  thirst  of  the  soul  will  lead  it 
again  and  again  to  these  ancient  fountains,  whence 
it  will  bring  back  its  handful  of  water  in  vessels 
curiously  carven  by  the  hands  of  imagination.  But 
no  cup  of  man's  making  will  ever  hold  all  that 
fountain  has  to  give,  and  to  those  who  are  really 
athirst  these  golden  and  beautifully  wrought  vessels 
are  insufficient  ;  they  must  drink  of  the  living 
stream. 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  155 

In  Arden  we  fourid  these  ancient  and  perennial 
fountains  ;  and  we  drank  deep  and  long.  There 
was  that  in  the  mystery  of  the  woods  which  made 
all  poetry  seem  pale  and  unreal  to  us  ;  there  was 
that  in  life,  as  we  saw  it  in  the  noble  souls  about 
us,  which  made  all  records  and  transcriptions  in 
books  seem  cold  and  superficial.  What  need  had 
we  of  verse  when  the  things  which  the  greatest 
poets  had  seen  with  vision  no  clearer  than  ours  lay 
clear  and  unspeakably  beautiful  before  us  ?  What 
had  fiction  or  history  for  us,  upon  whom  the  thrill 
ing  spell  of  the  deepest  human  living  was  laid  ! 
Rosalind  and  I  were  hourly  meeting  those  whose 
thoughts  had  fed  the  world  for  generations,  and 
whose  names  were  on  all  lips,  but  they  never  spoke 
of  the  books  they  had  written,  the  pictures  they 
had  painted,  the  music  they  had  composed.  And, 
strange  to  say,  it  was  not  because  of  these  splendid 
works  that  we  were  drawn  to  them  ;  it  was  the 
quality  of  their  natures,  the  deep,  compelling  charm 
of  their  minds,  which  filled  us  with  joy  in  their 
companionship.  In  Arden  it  is  a  small  matter 
that  Shakespeare  has  written  "  Hamlet,"  or  Words 
worth  the  "  Ode  on  Immortality  "  ;  not  that 
which  they  have  accomplished  but  that  which  they 
are  in  themselves  gives  these  names  a  luster  in 
Arden  such  as  shines  from  no  crown  of  fame  in  the 
outer  world.  Rosalind  and  I  had  dreamed  that 
we  might  meet  some  of  those  whose  words  had 
been  the  food  of  immortal  hope  to  us,  but  we  al- 


156  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

most  dreaded  that  nearer  acquaintance  which  might 
dispel  the  illusion  of  superiority.  How  delighted 
were  we  to  discover  that  not  only  are  great  souls, 
really  understood,  greater  than  all  their  works, 
but  that  the  works  were  forgotten  and  nothing  was 
remembered  but  the  soul !  Not  as  those  who  are 
fed  by  the  bounty  of  the  king,  but  as  kings  our 
selves,  were  we  received  into  this  noble  company. 
Were  we  not  born  to  the  same  inheritance  ?  Were 
not  Nature  and  life  ours  as  truly  as  they  were 
Shakespeare's  and  Wordsworth's  ?  As  we  sat  at 
rest  under  the  great  arms  of  the  trees,  or  roamed 
at  will  through  the  woodland  paths,  the  one  thought 
that  was  common  to  us  all  was,  not  how  nobly  these 
scenes  had  been  pictured  and  spoken,  but  how  far 
above  all  language  of  art  they  were,  and  how  shal 
low  runs  the  stream  of  speech  when  these  mys 
terious  treasures  of  feeling  and  insight  are  launched 
upon  it ! 


IX. 

....  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest. 

THE  friendship  of  Nature  is  matched  in  Arden 
with  human  friendships,  as  sincere,  as  void  of  dis 
guise  and  flattery,  as  stimulating  and  satisfying. 
There  are  times  when  every  sensitive  person  is 
wounded  by  misunderstanding  of  motives,  by  lack 
of  sympathy,  by  indifference  and  coldness  ;  such 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  157 

hours  came  not  infrequently  to  Rosalind  and  my 
self  in  the  old  days  before  we  set  out  for  the  Forest. 
We  found  unfailing  consolation  and  strength  in  our 
common  faith  and  purpose,  but  the  frigidity  of  the 
atmosphere  made  us  conscious  at  times  of  the  effort 
one  puts  forth  to  simply  sustain  the  life  of  his 
ideals,  the  charm  and  sweetness  of  those  secret 
hopes  which  feed  the  soul.  What  must  it  be  to  live 
among  those  who  are  quick  to  recognize  nobility  of 
motive,  to  conspire  with  aspiration,  to  believe  in 
the  best  and  highest  in  each  other  ?  It  was  to  taste 
such  a  life  as  this,  to  feel  the  consoling  power  of 
mutual  faith  and  the  inspiration  of  a  common  de 
votion  to  the  ideals  that  were  dearest  to  us,  that 
our  thoughts  turned  so  often  and  with  such  long 
ing  to  Arden.  In  such  moments  we  opened  with 
delight  certain  books  which  were  full  of  the  joy 
and  beauty  of  the  Forest  life  ;  books  which  brought 
back  the  dreams  that  were  fading  out  and  touched 
us  afresh  with  the  unsearchable  charm  and  beauty 
of  the  Ideal.  Surely  there  could  no  better  fortune 
befall  us  than  to  be  able  to  call  these  great  minis 
tering  spirits  our  friends. 

But,  strong  as  was  our  longing,  we  were  not 
without  misgivings  when  we  first  found  ourselves 
in  Arden.  In  this  commerce  of  ideas  and  hopes, 
what  had  we  to  give  in  exchange  ?  How  could  we 
claim  that  equality  with  those  we  longed  to  know 
which  is  the  only  basis  of  friendship  ?  We  were 
unconsciously  carrying  into  the  Forest  the  limi- 


I58  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

tations  of  our  old  life,  and  among  all  the  glad  sur 
prises  that  awaited  us,  there  was  none  so  joyful  as 
the  discovery  that  our  misgivings  vanished  as  soon 
as  we  began  to  know  our  neighbors.  Neither  of 
us  will  ever  forget  the  perfect  joy  of  those  earliest 
meetings  ;  a  joy  so  great  that  we  wondered  if  it 
could  endure.  There  is  nothing  so  satisfying  as 
quick  comprehension  of  one's  hopes,  instant  sym 
pathy  with  them,  absolute  frankness  of  speech,  and 
the  brilliant  and  stimulating  play  of  mind  upon 
mind  where  there  is  complete  unconsciousness  of 
self  and  complete  absorption  in  the  idea  and  the 
hour.  There  was  something  almost  intoxicating 
in  those  first  wonderful  talks  in  Arden  ;  we  seemed 
suddenly  not  only  to  be  perfectly  understood  by 
others,  but  for  the  first  time  to  understand  our 
selves  ;  the  horizons  of  our  mental  world  seemed 
to  be  swiftly  receding  and  new  continents  of  truth 
were  lifted  up  into  the  clear  light  of  consciousness. 
All  that  was  best  in  us  was  set  free  ;  we  were  con 
fident  where  we  had  been  uncertain  and  doubtful ; 
we  were  bold  where  we  had  been  almost  cowardly. 
We  spoke  our  deepest  thought  frankly  ;  we  drew 
from  their  hiding-places  our  noblest  dreams  of  the 
life  we  hoped  to  live  and  the  things  we  hoped  to 
achieve ;  we  concealed  nothing,  reserved  nothing, 
evaded  nothing  ;  we  were  desirous  above  all  things 
that  others  should  know  us  as  we  knew  ourselves. 
It  was  especially  restful  and  refreshing  to  speak  of 
our  failures  and  weaknesses,  of  our  struggles  and 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  I59 

defeats  ;  for  these  experiences  of  ours  were  in 
stantly  matched  by  kindred  experiences,  and  in  the 
common  sympathy  and  comprehension  a  new  kind 
of  strength  came  to  us.  The  humiliation  of  defeat 
was  shared,  we  found,  by  even  the  greatest ;  and 
that  which  made  these  noble  souls  what  they  were 
was  not  freedom  from  failure  and  weakness,  but 
steadfast  struggle  to  overcome  and  achieve.  As 
the  life  of  a  new  hope  filled  our  hearts,  we  remem 
bered  with  a  sudden  pain  the  world  out  of  which 
we  had  escaped,  where  every  one  hides  his  weak 
ness  lest  it  feed  a  vulgar  curiosity,  and  conceals  his 
defeats  lest  they  be  used  to  destroy  rather  than  to 
build  him  up. 

With  what  delight  did  we  find  that  in  Arden  the 
talk  touched  only  great  themes,  in  a  spirit  of  beauti 
ful  candor  and  unaffected  earnestness  !  To  have 
exchanged  the  small  personal  talk  from  which  we 
had  often  been  unable  to  escape  for  this  simple, 
sincere  discourse  on  the  things  that  were  of 
common  interest  was  like  exchanging  the  cloud-en 
veloped  lowland  for  some  sunny  mountain  slope, 
where  every  breath  was  vital  and  one  mused  on  half 
a  continent  spread  out  at  his  feet.  There  is  no 
food  for  the  soul  but  truth,  and  we  were  filled  with 
a  mighty  hunger  when  we  understood  for  how  long 
a  time  we  had  been  but  half  fed.  A  new  strength 
came  to  us,  and  with  it  an  openness  of  mind  and  a 
responsiveness  of  heart  that  made  life  an  inexhaust 
ible  joy.  We  were  set  free  from  the  weariness  of 


160  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

old  struggles  to  make  ourselves  understood  ;  we 
were  no  longer  perplexed  with  doubts  about  the 
reality  of  our  ideas ;  we  had  but  to  speak  the 
thought  that  was  in  us,  and  to  live  fearlessly  and 
joyously  in  the  hour  that  was  before  us.  Frank 
speaking,  absolute  candor,  that  would  once  have 
wounded,  now  only  cheered  and  stimulated  ;  the 
spirit  of  entire  helpfulness  drives  out  all  morbid 
self-consciousness.  Differences  no  longer  embitter 
when  courtesy  and  faith  are  universal  possessions. 
There  is  nothing  more  sacred  than  friendship, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  profane  it  by  drawing  the 
veil  from  its  ministries.  The  charm  of  a  perfectly 
noble  companionship  between  two  souls  is  as  real 
as  the  perfume  of  a  flower,  and  as  impossible  to 
convey  by  word  or  speech  ;  Nature  has  made  its 
sanctity  inviolable  by  making  it  forever'  impossible 
of  revelation  and  transference.  I  cannot  translate 
into  any  language  the  delicate  charm,  the  inexhaust 
ible  variety,  the  noble  fidelity  to  truth,  the  vigor  and 
splendor  of  thought,  the  unfailing  sympathy,  of  our 
Arden  friendships  ;  they  aue  a  part  of  the  Forest, 
and  one  must  seek  them  there.  It  would  vulgarize 
""these  fellowships  to  catalogue  the  great  names, 
always  tamiliar  to  us,  and  yet  which  gained  another 
and  a  better  familiarity  when  they  ceased  to  recall 
famous  persons  and  became  associated  with  those 
who  sat  at  our  hearthstone  or  gathered  about  our 
simple  board.  Rosalind  was  sooner  at  home  in  this 
noble  company  than  I  :  she  had  far  less  to  learn  ; 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  IgI 

but  at  last  I  grew  into  a  familiarity  with  my  neigh 
bors  which  was  all  the  sweeter  to  me  because  it 
registered  a  change  in  myself  long  hoped  for,  often 
despaired  of,  at  last  accomplished.  To  be  at  one 
with  Nature  was  a  joy  which  made  life  seem  rich 
beyond  all  earlier  thought ;  but  when  to  this  there 
was  added  the  fellowship  of  spirits  as  true  and 
great  as  Nature  herself,  the  wine  of  life  overflowed 
the  exquisite  cup  into  which  an  invisible  hand 
poured  it.  The  days  passed  like  a  dream  as  we 
strayed  together  through  the  woodland  paths  ; 
sometimes  in  some  deep  and  shadowy  glen  silence 
laid  her  finger  on  our  lips,  and  in  a  common  mood 
we  found  ourselves  drawn  together  without  speech. 
Often  at  night,  when  the  magic  of  the  moon  has 
woven  all  manner  of  enchantments^  about  us,  we 
have  lingered  hour  after  hour  under  that  supreme 
spell  which  is  felt  only  when  soul  speaks  with  soul. 


x. 
....  there's  no  clock  in  the  forest. 

THERE  were  a  great  many  days  in  Arden  when 
we  did  absolutely  nothing ;  we  awoke  without 
plans  ;  we  fell  asleep  without  memories.  This  was 
especially  true  of  the  earlier  part  of  our  stay  in  the 
Forest ;  the  stage  of  intense  enjoyment  of  new 
found  freedom  and  repose.  There  was  a  kind  of 
rapture  in  the  possession  of  our  days  that  was  new 


1 62  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

to  us  ;  a  sense  of  ownership  of  time  of  which  we 
had  never  so  much  as  dreamed  when  we  lived  by 
the  clock.  Those  tiny  ornamental  hands  on  the 
delicately  painted  dial  were  our  taskmasters,  dis 
guised  under  forms  so  dainty  and  fragile  that,  while 
we  felt  their  tyranny,  we  never  so  much  as  sus 
pected  their  share  in  our  servitude.  Silent  them 
selves,  they  issued  their  commands  in  tones  we 
dared  not  disregard;  fashioned  so  cunningly,  they 
ruled  us  as  with  iron  scepters  ;  moving  within  so 
small  a  circle,  they  sent  us  hither  and  yon  on  every 
imaginable  service.  They  severed  eternity  into 
minute  fragments,  and  dealt  it  out  to  us  minute  by 
minute  like  a  cordial  given  drop  by  drop  to  the 
dying ;  they  marked  with  relentless  exactness  the 
brief  periods  of  our  leisure  and  indicated  the  hours 
of  our  toil.  We  could  not  escape  from  their  vigi 
lant  and  inexorable  surveillance  ;  day  and  night 
they  kept  silent  record  beside  us,  measuring  out 
the  golden  light  of  summer  in  their  tiny  balances, 
and  doling  out  the  pittance  of  winter  sunshine  with 
niggardly  reluctance.  They  hastened  to  the  end  of 
our  joys,  and  moved  with  funereal  slowness  through 
the  appointed  times  of  our  sorrow.  They  ruled 
every  season,  pervaded  every  day,  recorded  every 
hour,  and,  like  misers  hoarding  a  treasure,  doled 
out  our  birthright  of  leisure  second  by  second  ;  so 
that,  being  rich,  we  were  always  impoverished ; 
inheritors  of  vast  fortune,  we  were  put  off  with  a 
meager  income  ;  born  free,  we  were  servants  of 


IN   THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  163 

masters  who  neither  ate  nor  slept,  that  they  might 
never  for  a  second  surrender  their  overseership. 

There  are  no  clocks  in  Arden  ;  the  sun  bestows 
the  day,  and  no  impertinence  of  men  destroys  its 
charm  by  calculating  its  value  and  marking  it  with 
a  price.  The  only  computers  of  time  are  the  great 
trees  whose  shadows  register  the  unbroken  march 
of  light  from  east  to  west.  Even  the  days  and 
nights  lost  that  painful  distinctness  which  tney  had 
for  us  when  they  gave  us  a  constant  sense  of  loss, 
an  incessant  apprehension  of  change  and  age.  Their 
shining  procession  leaves  no  such  records  in  Arden  ; 
they  come  like  the  waves  whose  ceaseless  flow  sings 
of  the  boundless  sea  whence  they  come.  They 
bring  no  consciousness  of  ebbing  years  and  joys 
and  strength  ;  they  bring  rather  a  sense  of  eternal 
resource  and  beneficence.  In  Arden  one  never 
feels  in  haste  ;  there  is  always  time  enough  and  to 
spare  ;  in  fact,  the  word  time  is  never  used  in  the 
vernacular  of  the  Forest  except  when  reference  is 
made  to  the  enslaved  world  without.  There  were 
moments  at  the  beginning  when  we  felt  a  little 
bewildered  by  our  freedom,  and  I  think  Rosalind 
secretly  longed  for  the  familiar  tones  of  the  cuckoo 
clock  which  had  chimed  so  many  years  in  and  out 
for  us  in  the  old  days.  One  must  get  accustomed 
even  to  good  fortune,  and  after  one  has  been  con 
fined  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a  little  plot  of 
earth  the  possession  of  a  continent  confuses  and 
perplexes.  But  men  are  born  to  good  fortune  if 


1 64  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

they  but  knew  it,  and  we  were  soon  reconciled  to 
the  possession  of  inexhaustible  wealth.  We  felt 
the  delight  of  a  sudden  exchange  of  poverty  for 
richness,  a  swift  transition  from  bondage  to  free 
dom.  Eternity  was  ours,  and  we  ceased  to  divide 
it  into  fragments,  or  to  set  it  off  into  duties  and 
work.  We  lived  in  the  consciousness  of  a  vast 
leisure  ;  a  quiet  happiness  took  the  place  of  the  old 
anxiety  to  always  do  at  the  moment  the  thing 
that  ought  to  be  done  ;  we  accepted  the  days  as 
gifts  of  joy  rather  than  as  bringers  of  care. 

It  was  delightful  to  fall  asleep  lulled  by  the  rustle 
of  the  leaves,  and  to  awake,  without  memory  of 
care  or  pressure  of  work,  to  a  day  that  had  brought 
nothing  more  discordant  into  the  Forest  than  the 
singing  of  birds.  We  rose  exhilarated  and  buoy 
ant,  and  breakfasted  merrily  under  a  great  oak  ; 
sometimes  we  lingered  far  on  into  the  morning, 
yielding  ourselves  to  the  spell  of  the  early  day 
when  it  no  longer  proses  of  work  and  duty,  but 
sings  of  freedom  and  ease  and  the  strength  that 
makes  a  play  of  life.  Often  we  strayed  without 
plan  or  purpose,  as  the  winding  paths  of  the  Forest 
led  us  ;  happy  and  care-free  as  children  suddenly 
let  loose  in  fairyland.  We  discovered  moss-grown 
paths  which  led  into  the  very  heart  of  the  Forest, 
and  we  pressed  on  silently  from  one  green  recess  to 
another  until  all  memory  of  the  sunnier  world  faded 
out  of  mind.  Sometimes  we  emerged  suddenly 
into  a  wide,  brilliant  glade  ;  sometimes  we  came  into 


IN    THE   FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  165 

a  sanctuary  so  overhung  with  great  masses  of 
foliage,  so  secluded  and  silent,  that  we  took  the 
rude  pile  of  moss-grown  stones  we  found  there  as 
an  altar  to  solitude,  and  our  stillness  became  part 
of  the  universal  worship  of  silence  which  touched 
us  with  a  deep  and  beautiful  solemnity.  Wherever 
we  strayed  the  same  tranquil  leisure  enfolded  us  ; 
day  followed  day  in  an  order  unbroken  and  peace 
ful  as  the  unfolding  of  the  flowers  and  the  silent 
march  of  the  stars.  Time  no  longer  ran  like  the 
few  sands  in  a  delicate  hour-glass  held  by  a  fragile 
human  hand,  but  like  a  majestic  river  fed  by  fath 
omless  seas.  The  sky,  bare  and  free  from  horizon 
to  horizon,  was  itself  a  symbol  of  eternity,  with  its 
infinite  depth  of  color,  its  sublime  serenity,  its  deep 
silence  broken  only  by  the  flight  and  songs  of  birds. 
These  were  at  home  in  that  ethereal  sphere,  at  rest 
in  that  boundless  space,  and  we  were  not  slow  to 
learn  the  lesson  of  their  freedom  and  joy.  We  gave 
ourselves  up  to  the  sweetness  of  that  unmeasured 
life,  without  thought  of  yesterday  or  to-morrow  ; 
we  drank  the  cup  which  to-day  held  to  our  lips,  and 
knew  that  so  long  as  we  were  athirst  that  draught 
would  not  be  denied  us. 


1 66  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

XI. 

....  every  of  this  happy  number 
That  have  endur'd  shrewd  nights  and  days  with  us. 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 

THERE  is  this  great  consolation  for  those  who 
cannot  live  continually  in  the  Forest  of  Arden  : 
that,  having  once  proven  one's  citizenship  there, 
one  can  return  at  will.  Those  who  have  lived  in 
Arden  and  have  gone  back  again  into  the  world, 
are  sustained  in  their  loneliness  by  the  knowledge 
of  their  fellowship  with  a  nobler  community. 
Aliens  though  they  are,  they  have  yet  a  country  to 
which  they  are  loyal,  not  through  interest,  but 
through  aspiration,  imagination,  faith,  and  love. 
Rosalind  and  I  found  the  months  in  Arden  all  too 
brief ;  our  life  there  was  one  long  golden  day, 
whose  sunset  cast  a  soft  and  tender  light  on  our 
whole  past  and  made  it  beautiful  for  us.  It  is  one 
of  the  delights  of  the  Forest  that  only  the  noblest 
aspects  of  life  are  visible  there  ;  or,  rather,  that 
the  hard  and  bare  details  of  living,  seen  in  the 
atmosphere  of  Arden,  yield  some  truth  of  character 
or  experience  which,  like  the  rose,  makes  even  the 
rough  calyx  which  encased  it  beautiful.  We  had 
sometimes  spoken  together  of  our  return  to  the 
world  we  had  left,  but  we  put  off  as  long  as  possible 
all  definite  preparations.  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
should  ever  have  come  back  if  Rosalind  had  not 


IN    THE    FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  167 

taken  the  matter  into  her  own  hands.  She  remem 
bered  that  there  was  work  to  be  done  which  ought 
not  to  be  longer  postponed  ;  that  there  were  duties 
to  be  met  which  ought  not  to  be  longer  evaded  ; 
and  when  did  Rosalind  fail  to  be  or  to  do  that 
which  the  hour  and  the  experience  commanded? 
We  treasured  the  last  days  as  if  the  minutes  were 
pure  gold ;  we  lingered  in  talk  with  our  friends  as 
if  we  should  never  again  hear  such  spoken  words ; 
we  loitered  in  the  woods  as  if  the  spell  of  that  beau 
tiful  silence  would  never  again  touch  us.  And  yet 
we  knew  that,  once  possessed,  these  things  were 
ours  forever  ;  neither  care,  nor  change,  nor  time, 
nor  death,  could  take  them  from  us,  for  henceforth 
they  were  part  of  ourselves. 

We  stood  again  at  length  on  the  little  porch, 
covered  with  dust,  and  turned  the  key  in  the  unused 
lock.  I  think  we  were  both  a  little  reluctant  to 
enter  and  begin  again  the  old  round  of  life  and 
work.  The  house  seemed  smaller  and  less  home 
like,  the  furniture  had  lost  its  freshness,  the  books 
on  the  shelves  looked  dull  and  faded.  Rosalind 
ran  to  a  window,  opened  it,  and  let  in  a  flood  of 
sunshine.  I  confess  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little 
heartsick,  but  when  the  light  fell  on  her  I  remem 
bered  the  rainy  day  in  Arden,  when  the  first  rays 
after  the  storm  touched  her  and  dispelled  the 
gloom,  and  I  realized,  with  a  joy  too  deep  for  words 
or  tears,  that  I  had  brought  the  best  of  Arden  with 
me.  We  talked  little  during  those  first  days  of  our 


1 68  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

home-coming,  but  we  set  the  house  in  order,  we  re 
called  to  the  lonely  rooms  the  old  associations,  and 
we  quietly  took  up  the  cares  and  burdens  we  had 
dropped.  It  was  not  easy  at  first,  and  there  were 
days  when  we  were  both  heartsore  ;  but  we  waited 
and  worked  and  hoped.  Our  neighbors  found  us 
more  silent  and  absorbed  than  of  old,  but  neither 
that  change  nor  our  absence  seemed  to  have  made 
any  impression  upon  them.  Indeed,  we  even 
doubted  if  they  knew  that  we  had  taken  such  a  jour 
ney.  Day  by  day  we  stepped  into  the  old  places  and 
fell  into  the  old  habits,  until  all  the  broken  threads 
of  our  life  were  reunited  and  we  were  apparently 
as  much  a  part  of  the  world  as  if  we  had  never  gone 
out  of  it  and  found  a  nobler  and  happier  sphere. 

But  there  came  to  us  gradually  a  clear  conscious 
ness  that,  though  we  were  in  the  world,  we  were 
not  of  it,  nor  ever  again  could  be.  It  was  no  longer 
our  world  ;  its  standards,  its  thoughts,  its  pleasures, 
were  not  for  us.  We  were  not  lonely  in  it ;  on  the 
contrary,  when  the  first  impression  of  strangeness 
wore  off,  we  were  happier  than  we  had  ever  been  in 
the  old  days.  Our  reputation  was  no  longer  in  the 
breath  of  men  ;  our  fortune  was  no  longer  at  the 
mercy  of  rising  or  falling  markets  ;  our  plans  and 
hopes  were  no  longer  subject  to  chance  and  change. 
We  had  a  possession  in  the  Forest  of  Arden,  and 
we  had  friends  and  dreams  there  beyond  the  em 
pire  of  time  and  fate.  And  when  we  compared  the 
security  of  our  fortunes  with  the  vicissitudes  to 


IN'  THE   FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  169 

which  the  estates  of  our  neighbors  were  exposed  ; 
when  we  compared  our  noble-hearted  friends  with 
their  meaner  companionships  ;  when  we  compared 
the  peaceful  serenity  of  our  hearts  with  their  per 
plexities  and  anxieties,  we  were  filled  with  inexpress 
ible  sympathy.  We  no  longer  pierced  them  with 
the  arrows  of  satire  and  wit  because  they  accepted 
lower  standards  and  found  pleasure  in  things  essen 
tially  pleasureless  ;  they  had  not  lived  in  Arden, 
and  why  should  we  berate  them  for  not  possessing 
that  which  had  never  been  within  their  reach  ?  We 
saw  that  upon  those  whom  an  inscrutable  fate  has 
led  through  the  paths  of  Arden  a  great  and  noble 
duty  is  laid.  They  are  not  to  be  the  scorners  and 
despisers  of  those  whose  eyes  are  holden  that  they 
cannot  see,  and  whose  ears  are  stopped  that  they 
cannot  hear,  the  vision  and  the  melody  of  things 
ideal.  They  are  rather  to  be  eyes  to  the  blind  and 
ears  to  the  deaf.  They  are  to  interpret  in  unshaken 
trust  and  patience  that  which  has  been  revealed  to 
them  ;  servants  are  they  of  the  Ideal,  and  their 
ministry  is  their  exceeding  gteat  reward.  So  long 
as  they  see  clearly,  it  is  small  matter  to  them  that 
their  message  is  rejected,  the  mighty  consolation 
which  they  bring  refused  ;  their  joy  does  not  hang 
on  acceptance  or  rejection  at  the  hands  of  their  fel 
lows.  The  only  real  losers  are  those  who  will  not 
see  nor  hear.  It  is  not  the  light-bringerwho  suffers 
when  the  torch  is  torn  from  his  hands  ;  it  is  those 
whose  paths  he  would  lighten. 


170  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

And  more  and  more,  as  the  days  went  by,  Rosa 
lind  and  I  found  the  life  of  the  Forest  stealing  into 
our  old  home.  The  old  monotony  was  gone  ;  the 
old  weariness  and  depression  crossed  our  threshold 
no  more.  If  work  was  pressing,  we  were  always 
looking  through  and  beyond  it ;  we  saw  the  fine 
results  that  were  being  accomplished  in  it  ;  we  rec 
ognized  the  high  necessity  which  imposed  it.  If 
perplexities  and  cares  sat  with  us  at  the  fireside,  we 
received  them  as  friends  ;  for  in  the  light  of  Arden 
had  we  not  seen  their  harsh  masks  removed,  and 
behind  them  the  benignant  faces  of  those  who 
patiently  serve  and  minister,  and  receive  no  reward 
save  fear  and  avoidance  and  misconception  ?  In 
fact,  having  lived  in  Arden,  and  with  the  conscious 
ness  that  we  might  seek  shelter  there  as  in  another 
and  securer  home,  the  world  barely  touched  us,  save 
to  awaken  our  sympathies  and  to  evoke  our  help. 
It  had  little  to  give  us  ;  we  had  much  to  give  it. 
There  was  within  and  about  us  a  peace  and  joy 
which  were  not  for  us  alone.  Our  little  home  was 
folded  within  impalpable  walls,  and  beyond  it  lay  a 
vision  of  green  foliage  and  golden  masses  of  cloud 
that  never  faded  off  the  horizon.  There  were  be 
nignant  presences  in  our  rooms  visible  to  no  eyes 
but  ours  ;  for  our  Arden  friends  did  not  forsake 
us.  There  were  memories  between  us  which  made 
all  our  days  beautiful  with  the  consciousness  of 
immortal  faith  and  love  ;  there  were  hopes  which, 
like  celestial  beings,  looked  upon  us  with  eyes  deep 


IN   THE   FOREST  OF  ARDEN.  171 

with  unspeakable  prophecy  as  they  waited  at  the 
doors  of  the  future. 

It  is  an  autumn  afternoon,  and  the  sun  lies  warm 
on  the  ripening  vines  that  cover  the  wall,  and  on 
the  late  flowers  that  bloom  by  the  roadside.  As  I 
write  these  words  I  look  up  from  my  portfolio,  and 
Rosalind  sits  there,  work  in  hand,  smiling  at  me 
over  her  flying  needle.  My  glance  rests  on  her  a 
moment,  and  a  strange  uncertainty  comes  over  me. 
Have  I  really  been  in  Arden,  or  have  I  dreamed 
these  things,  looking  into  Rosalind's  eyes  ?  It  mat 
ters  little  whether  I  have  traveled  or  dreamed  ; 
where  Rosalind  is,  there,  for  me  at  least,  lies  the 
Forest  of  Arden. 


AN  UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND. 


' '  Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  the  air,  or  th'  earth  ? 
It  sounds  no  more  :  and,  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  o*  the  island." 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

AN    UNDISCOVERED   ISLAND. 
I. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  ; 

Curtsied  when  you  have  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 

Foot  it  featly  here  and  there  ; 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 

ONE  winter  evening,  some  time  after  the  mem 
orable  year  of  our  first  visit  to  the  Forest  of  Arden, 
Rosalind  and  I  were  planning  a  return  to  that  en 
chanting  place,  and  in  the  glow  of  the  fire  on  the 
hearth  were  picturing  to  ourselves  the  delights  that 
would  be  ours  again,  when  the  clang  of  the  knocker 
suddenly  recalled  us  from  our  dreams.  Hospitably 
inclined,  as  I  trust  and  believe  we  are,  at  that 
moment  an  interruption  seemed  like  an  intrusion. 
But  our  momentary  annoyance  was  speedily  dis 
pelled  when  the  library  door  opened,  and,  with  the 
freedom  which  belongs  to  old  friendship,  the  Poet 
entered  unannounced.  No  one  could  have  been 
more  welcome  on  that  wintry  night  than  this  genial 
and  human  soul,  bound  to  us  by  many  ties  of 


1 76  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

familiar  association  as  well  as  by  frequent  neighbor- 
liness  in  the  woods  of  Arden.  It  had  happened 
again  and  again  that  we  had  found  ourselves  to 
gether  in  the  recesses  of  the  Forest,  and  enchanting 
beyond  all  speech  had  been  those  days  and  nights 
of  mingled  talk  and  dreams. 

The  Poet  is  one  of  the  friends  whose  coming  is 
peculiarly  welcome  because  it  always  harmonizes 
with  the  mood  of  the  moment,  and  no  speech  is 
needed  to  bring  us  into  agreement.  Rosalind  took 
the  visitor  into  our  plan  at  once,  and  urged  him  to 
go  with  us  on  this  mysterious  journey  ;  whereupon 
he  told  us  that,  by  one  of  those  delightful  coinci 
dences  which  are  always  happening  to  people  of 
kindred  tastes  and  aims,  this  very  errand  had 
brought  him  to  our  door.  The  time  had  come,  he 
said,  when  he  could  no  longer  resist  the  longing  for 
Arden  !  We  all  smiled  at  that  sudden  outburst ; 
how  well  we  knew  what  it  meant !  After  months  of 
going  our  ways  dutifully  in  the  dust  and  heat  of  the 
world,  the  longing  for  Arden  would  on  the  instant 
become  irresistible.  Come  what  might,  the  hunger 
for  perfect  comprehension  and  fellowship,  the  thirst 
for  the  beauty  and  repose  of  the  deep  woods,  must 
be  satisfied,  and  forsaking  whatever  was  in  hand  we 
fled  incontinently  across  the  invisible  boundaries 
into  that  other  and  diviner  country.  No  sooner  had 
the  Poet  made  his  confession  than  we  hastened  to 
make  ours,  and,  without  further  consideration,  we 
resolved  the  very  next  day  to  shake  the  dust  from 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  177 

our  feet  and  escape  into  Arden.  This  question 
settled,  a  great  gayety  seized  us,  and  we  began  to 
plan  new  journeys  for  the  years  to  come  ;  journeys 
which  had  this  peculiar  charm — that  they  belonged 
to  a  few  kindred  spirits  ;  the  world  knows  nothing 
of  them,  and  when  some  obscure  reference  brings 
them  to  mind,  smiles  its  skeptical  smile,  and  goes 
on  with  its  money-getting.  Rosalind  drew  from  its 
hiding-place  the  chart  of  this  world  of  the  imagina 
tion  which  we  were  given  to  studying  on  long  win 
ter  evenings,  and  of  which  only  a  few  copies  exist. 
These  charts  are  among  the  few  things  not  to  be 
had  for  money  ;  if  they  fall  into  alien  hands  they 
are  incomprehensible.  It  is  true  of  them,  as  of  the 
books  which  describe  the  Forest  of  Arden,  that  they 
have  a  kind  of  second  meaning,  only  to  be  dis 
cerned  by  those  whose  eyes  detect  the  deeper  things 
of  life.  It  is  another  peculiarity  of  these  charts 
that  while  science  has  indirectly  done  not  a  little 
for  their  completeness,  the  work  of  preparing  them 
has  fallen  entirely  into  the  hands  of  the  poets  ;  not, 
of  course,  the  writers  of  verse  alone,  but  those  who 
have  had  the  vision  of  the  great  world  as  it  lies  in 
the  imagination,  and  who  have  heard  that  deep 
and  incommunicable  music  which  sings  at  the  heart 
of  it. 

Rosalind  spread  this  chart  on  the  table,  and  we 
drew  our  chairs  around  it,  noting  now  one  and  now 
another  of  the  famous  places  of  which  all  men 
have  heard,  but  which  to  most  men  are  mere  fig- 


178  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

ments  of  dreams.  Here,  for  instance,  in  a  certain 
latitude  plainly  marked  on  the  margin,  is  that  calm 
sweet  land  of  the  Phseacians  where  reigns  Alcinoiis 
the  great-souled  king,  and  the  white-armed  Nau- 
sicaa  sings  after  her  bath  on  the  river's  brink  : 

Without  the  palace  court  and  near  the  gate 
A  spacious  garden  of  four  acres  lay  ; 
A  hedge  inclosed  it  round,  and  lofty  trees 
Flourished  in  generous  growth  within — the  pear 
And  the  pomegranate,  and  the  apple  tree 
With  its  fair  fruitage,  and  the  luscious  fig, 
And  ol.ve  always  green.     The  fruit  they  bear 
Falls  not,  nor  ever  fails  in  winter  time 
Nor  summer,  but  is  yielded  all  the  year. 
The  ever-blowing  west  wind  causes  some 
To  swell  and  some  to  ripen  ;  pear  succeeds 
To  pear  ;  to  apple,  apple,  grape  to  grape, 
Fig  ripens  after  fig. 

Here,  as  Rosalind  moves  her  finger,  lies  the 
valley  of  Avalon,  whither  Arthur  went  to  heal  his 
overmastering  sorrow,  and  where  the  air  is  always 
sweet  with  the  smell  of  apple  blossoms.  In  this 
deep  wood  lives  Merlin,  still  weaving,  as  of  old,  the 
magic  spells.  There  is  the  castle  of  the  Grail, 
and  as  our  eyes  fall  on  it,  suddenly  there  comes  a 
hush,  and  we  seem  to  hear  the  sublime  antiphony, 
choir  answering  choir  in  heavenly  melody,  as 
Parsifal  raises  the  cup,  and  the  light  from  above 
smites  it  into  sudden  glory.  We  are  traveling 
eastward,  touching  here  and  there  those  names 
which  belong  only  to  the  greatest  poetry,  when  Rosa- 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND. 


179 


lind's  finger — the  index  of  our  wanderings — sud 
denly  pauses  and  rests  on  an  island,  not  large,  as  it 
lies  amid  that  silent  sea,  but  wonderful  above  all 
islands  to  which  thought  has  ever  wandered  or  where 
imagination  has  ever  made  its  home.  Under  the  light 
of  the  lamp,  with  Rosalind's  face  bending  over  it, 
no  island  ever  slept  in  a  deeper  calm  than  this  little 
circle  of  land  about  which  the  greatest  of  the  poets 
once  evoked  the  most  marvelous  of  tempests. 
Rosalind's  finger  does  not  move  from  that  magical 
point,  and,  peering  on  the  chart,  our  eyes  suddenly 
meet,  and  a  single  thought  is  in  them  all.  Why 
not  postpone  Arden  for  the  moment  and  explore 
the  isle  of  Miranda's  morning  beauty  and  Pros- 
pero's  magical  wisdom  ? 

"Why  not?"  says  Rosalind,  speaking  aloud,  and 
instead  of  answering  her  question  the  Poet  and  I 
are  wondering  why  we  have  never  gone  before. 
Straightway  we  fall  to  studying  the  map  more 
closely  ;  we  note  the  latitude  and  longitude ;  it  is 
but  a  little  way  from  the  mainland  where  stretches 
the  green  expanse  of  the  Forest  of  Arden.  We 
might  have  gone  long  ago  if  we  had  been  a  little 
more  adventurous  ;  at  least  we  think  we  might  at 
the  first  blush  ;  but  when  we  talk  it  over,  as  we 
proceed  to  do  when  Rosalind  has  rolled  up  the  chart 
and  put  it  in  its  place,  we  are  not  quite  so  sure 
about  it.  It  is  one  of  the  singular  things  about  this 
kind  of  journeying  that  one  learns  how  to  travel 
and  where  to  go  only  by  personal  observation.  Be- 


l8o  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

fore  we  went  to  Arden,  for  instance,  we  had  no 
clear  knowledge  of  any  of  these  countries  ;  we  had 
often  heard  of  them  ;  their  names  were  often  on 
our  lips  ;  but  they  were  not  real  to  us.  That  happy 
day  when  Arden  ceased  to  be  a  dream  to  us  was 
the  beginning  of  a  rapid  growth  of  knowledge  con 
cerning  these  invisible  countries  ;  one  by  one  they 
seemed  to  rise  within  the  circle  of  our  expanding 
experience  until  we  became  aware  that  we  were 
masters  of  a  new  kind  of  geography.  That  delight 
ful  discovery  was  not  many  years  behind  us,  but 
this  new  knowledge  had  already  become  so  much  a 
part  of  our  lives  that  we  often  confused  it  with  the 
knowledge  of  commoner  things. 

That  night,  before  we  parted,  our  plans  were  com 
pleted  ;  on  the  morrow,  when  night  came,  the  fire 
on  the  hearth  would  be  unlighted,  for  we  should  be 
on  Prospero's  island. 


n. 

O,  rejoice 

Beyond  a  common  joy  ;  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars  :  in  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis  ; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 
Where  he  himself  was  lost;  Prospero,  his  dukedom, 
In  a  poor  isle;  and  all  of  us,  ourselves, 
Where  no  man  was  his  own. 

"HONEST  Gonzalo  never  spoke  truer  word/'  said 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  181 

the  Poet,  answering  Rosalind,  who  had  been  quot 
ing  the  old  counselor's  summing  up  of  the  common 
good  fortune  on  the  island  when  Prospero  dispelled 
his  enchantments  and  the  shipwrecked  company 
found  themselves  saved  as  by  miracle.  It  was  our 
first  evening  on  the  island  ;  one  of  those  memorable 
nights  when  all  things  seem  born  anew  into  some 
larger  heritage  of  beauty.  The  moon  hung  low 
over  the  quiet  sea,  sleeping  now  under  the  spell  of 
the  summer  night,  as  if  no  storm  had  ever  vexed  it. 
So  silent,  so  hushed  was  it  that  but  for  the  soft  rip 
ple  on  the  sand  we  should  have  thought  it  calmed 
in  eternal  repose.  Far  off  along  the  horizon  the 
stars  hung  motionless  as  the  sea ;  overhead  they 
shone  out  of  the  measureless  depths  of  space  with 
a  soft  and  solemn  splendor.  Not  a  branch  moved 
on  the  great  trees  behind  us,  folded  now  in  the 
universal  mystery  of  the  night.  The  little  stretch 
of  beach,  over  whose  yellow  sands  the  song  of  the 
invisible  Ariel  once  floated,  lay  in  the  soft  light  fit 
for  the  feet  of  fairies,  or  the  gentle  advance  and  re 
treat  of  the  sea.  The  very  air,  suffused  through  all 
that  vast  immensity  with  a  mysterious  light,  seemed 
like  a  dream  of  peace. 

In  such  a  place,  at  such  a-n  hour,  one  shrinks 
from  speech  as  from  the  word  that  breaks  the  spell. 
When  one  is  so  much  a  part  of  the  sublime  order  of 
things  that  the  universal  movement  of  force  that 
streams  through  all  things  embraces  and  thrills  him 
with  the  consciousness  of  common  fellowship,  how 


1 82  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

vain  is  all  human  utterance  !  The  greatest  of 
poems,  the  sublime  harmony  in  which  all  things  are 
folded,  has  never  been  spoken,  and  never  will  be. 
No  lyre  in  any  human  hand  will  ever  make  those 
divine  chords  audible.  The  poets  hear  them,  know 
them,  live  by  them  ;  but  no  verse  contains  them. 
So  much  a  part  of  that  wondrous  night  were  we  that 
any  speech  would  have  seemed  like  a  severance  of 
things  that  were  one  ;  all  the  deep  meaning  of  the 
hour  was  clear  to  us  because  we  were  included  in  it. 
How  long  we  sat  in  that  silence  I  do  not  know  ;  we 
had  forgotten  the  world  out  of  which  we  had 
escaped,  and  the  route  by  which  we  came  ;  we 
knew  only  that  an  infinite  sea  of  beauty  and  wonder 
rippled  on  the  beach  at  our  feet,  and  that  over  us 
the  heavens  were  as  a  delicate  veil,  beyond  which 
diviner  loveliness  seemed  waiting  on  the  verge  of 
birth. 

It  was  Rosalind  who  spoke  at  last,  and  spoke  in 
words  which  flashed  the  human  truth  of  the  hour 
into  our  thoughts.  On  this  island  we  had  found 
ourselves  ;  so  often  lost,  at  times  so  long  forgotten, 
in  the  busy  world  that  lay  afar  off.  And  then  we 
fell  a-talking  of  the  island  and  of  all  the  kindred 
places  where  men  have  found  homes  for  their  souls  ; 
sweet  and  fragrant  retreats  whence  the  noise  of 
strife  and  toil  died  into  a  faint  murmur,  or  was  lost 
in  some  vast  silence.  At  Milan,  Prospero  found  the 
cares  of  state  so  irksome,  the  joy  of  "  secret 
studies  "  so  alluring,  that,  despairing  of  harmoniz- 


AX    UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  ^3 

ing  things  so  alien,  he  took  refuge  with  his  books, 
and  found  his  "library  was  dukedom  large  enough." 
But  the  problem  was  not  solved  by  this  surrender  ; 
out  of  the  library,  as  out  of  the  dukedom,  he  was  set 
adrift,  homeless  and  friendless,  until  he  set  foot  on 
the  island  where  he  was  to  rule  with  no  divided 
sway.  Here  was  his  true  home  ;  here  the  spirits  of 
the  air  and  the  powers  of  the  earth  were  his  minis 
ters  ;  here  his  word  seemed  part  of  the  elemental 
order  ;  he  spoke  and  rt  was  done,  for  the  winds  and 
the  sea  obeyed  him.  And  when,  in  the  working 
out  of  destiny  which  he  himself  directed,  he  returns 
to  the  dukedom  from  which  he  had  been  thrust  out, 
he  is  no  longer  the  Prospero  of  ineffective  days. 
Henceforth  he  will  rule  Milan  as  he  rules  the  quiet 
dukedom  of  his  books  ;  he  has  become  a  master  of 
life  and  time,  and  his  sovereignty  will  never  again 
be  disputed. 

Prospero  did  not  find  the  island  ;  he  created  it. 
It  was  the  necessity  of  his  life  that  he  should  fash 
ion  this  bit  of  territory  out  of  the  great  sea,  that 
here  his  soul  might  learn  its  strength  and  win  its 
freedom  ;  that  here,  far  from  dukedom  and  cour 
tiers,  he  might  discover  that  a  great  soul  creates  its 
own  world  and  lives  its  own  life.  Milan  may  cast 
him  out,  as  did  Florence  another  of  his  kind,  but 
this  human  rejection  will  but  bring  him  into  that 
empire  which  no  enmity  may  touch,  in  the  calm  of 
whose  divinely  ordered  government  treasons  are  un 
known.  No  man  finds  himself  until  he  has  created 


1 84  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

a  world  for  his  own  soul  ;  a  world  apart  from  care 
and  weakness  and  the  confusions  of  strife,  in  which 
the  faiths  that  inspire  him  and  the  ideals  that  lead 
him  are  the  great  and  lasting  verities.  To  this 
world-building  all  the  great  poetic  minds  are  driven; 
within  this  invisible  empire  alone  can  they  rec 
oncile  the  life  that  surrounds  them  with  the  life 
that  floats  like  a  dream  before  them.  No  great 
mind  is  ever  at  rest  until  in  some  way  the  Real  and 
the  Ideal  are  found  to  be  one1.  Literature  is  full  of 
these  beautiful  homes  of  the  soul,  reared  without 
the  sound  of  chisel  or  hammer  by  the  magic  of  the 
Imagination — divinest  of  the  faculties,  since  it  is 
the  only  one  which  creates.  The  other  faculties 
observe,  record,  compare,  combine  ;  the  imagina 
tion  alone  uses  the  brush,  the  chisel,  or  the  pen  ! 

If  one  were  to  record  these  kingdoms  of  the 
mind,  how  long  and  luminous  would  be  the  cata 
logue  !  The  golden  age  and  the  fabled  Atlantis  of 
the  elder  poets  ;  the  "  Republic "  of  the  broad- 
browed  Athenian  ;  the  secret  gardens,  impregnable 
castles,  sweet  and  inaccessible  retreats  of  the  medi 
aeval  fancy  ;  the  Paradise  of  Dante  ;  the  enchant 
ing  world  through  which  the  Fairy  Queen  moves  ; 
the  "Utopia"  of  the  noble  More;  the  Forest  of 
Arden — what  visions  of  peace,  what  glimpses  of 
beauty,  accompany  every  name  !  To  all  these 
worlds  of  supernal  loveliness  there  is  a  single  key  ; 
fortunate  among  men  are  they  who  hold  it ! 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  185 


III. 

Be  not  afraid  ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 

Sounds  and  sweet  airs  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not. 

Sometimes  a  thousand  twanging  instruments 

Will  hum  about  mine  ears  ;  and  sometimes  voices, 

That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 

Will  make  me  sleep  again  ;  and  then,  in  dreaming, 

The  clouds  methought  would  open,  and  show  riches 

Ready  to  drop  upon  me  ;  that,  when  I  waked, 

I  cried  to  dream  again. 

WHEN  the  sun  rose  the  next  morning,  we  rose 
with  it,  eager  to  explore  our  little  world  about  which 
the  sea  never  ceased  to  sing  its  mighty  hymn  of 
solitude  and  mystery.  There  was  something  im 
pressive  in  the  consciousness  of  our  isolation  ;  be 
tween  us  and  any  noise  of  human  occupation  the 
waters  were  stretched  as  a  barrier  against  which  all 
sound  died  into  silence.  There  was  something 
enchanting  in  the  beauty  and  strangeness  of  this 
tiny  continent,  unreported  by  any  geography,  un 
marked  on  any  chart  save  that  which  a  few  possess 
as  a  kind  of  sacred  heritage,  untraveled  as  yet  by  our 
eager  feet.  There  was  something  thrilling  in  the 
associations  that  touched  the  island  with  such  a  light 
as  never  fell  from  sun  or  star.  With  beating  hearts 
we  set  out  on  that  wondrous  exploration.  Who 
does  not  remember  the  thrill  of  the  first  discovery 
of  a  new  world  ;  that  joy  of  the  soul  in  possession 
of  a  great  new  truth  which  passes  all  speech  ? 


1 86  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

There  are  hours  in  this  troubled  life  when  the  mists 
are  lifted  and  float  away  like  faint  clouds  against 
the  blue,  and  the  great  world  lies  like  a  splendid 
vision  before  us,  and  "  the  immeasurable  heavens 
break  open  to  the  highest,"  and  in  a  sudden  rift  of 
human  limitation  the  whole  sublime  order  opens 
before  us,  sings  to  us  out  of  the  fathomless  depths 
of  its  harmony,  thrills  us  with  a  sudden  sense  of 
God  and  of  the  undiscovered  range  and  splendor 
of  our  lives  ;  and  when  they  have  passed,  these 
hours  remain  with  us  in  the  afterglow  of  clearer 
vision  and  deeper  faith.  Such  hours  are  the  pecu 
liar  joy  of  those  who  hold  the  key  of  the  imagina 
tion  in  their  grasp  and  are  able  to  unlock  the  gate 
of  dreams,  or  make  themselves  the  companion  of 
the  great  explorers  in  the  realms  of  truth  and  beauty. 
These  are  the  secret  joys  which  people  solitude  and 
make  the  quiet  days  one  long  draught  of  inspiration. 
In  such  a  mood  our  quest  began  and  ended.  We 
skirted  the  beach  ;  we  plunged  deep  into  the  re 
cesses  of  the  woods  ;  we  stretched  ourselves  on  the 
broad  expanse  of  greensward  in  the  shade  of  the 
great  boughs  ;  we  followed  the  rivulet  to  the  hushed 
and  shadowy  solitude  where  it  issued  from  the  moss- 
grown  rock  ;  wherever  we  bent  our  steps  the  song 
of  the  sea  followed  us,  and  the  day  was  calm  and 
cool  as  with  its  breadth  and  freshness.  The  island 
had  its  own  beauty  ;  the  beauty  of  virgin  forests 
and  untrodden  paths,  of  a  certain  fragrant  sweet 
ness  gathered  in  years  of  untroubled  solitude,  of  a 


AN    UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  187 

certain  pastoral  repose  such  as  comes  to  Nature 
when  man  is  remote  ;  but  that  which  gave  us  the 
thrill  of  something  strangely  sweet  and  satisfying, 
something  apart  from  the  world  we  had  left,  was 
not  anything  we  saw  with  eye.  All  that  was  visible 
was  beautiful,  but  it  was  a  loveliness  not  unfamiliar ; 
it  was  the  invisible  continually  breaking  in  upon  our 
consciousness  that  laid  us  under  a  spell.  We  were 
conscious  of  something  lovelier  than  we  saw  ;  a 
world  not  to  be  discerned  by  sight,  but  real  and 
unspeakably  beautiful  to  the  soul.  Even  to  Caliban 
the  isle  was  "full  of  noises";  "sounds  and  sweet 
airs  that  give  delight"  did  not  escape  his  brutish 
sense.  Sometimes  "  a  thousand  twangling  instru 
ments  "  hummed  about  his  ears  ;  sometimes  voices 
whose  soft  music  was  akin  to  sleep  floated  about  him  ; 
and  sometimes  the  clouds  "  would  open  and  show 
riches  ready  to  drop  upon  "  him.  There  was  a 
sweet  enchantment  in  the  air  to  which  the  dullest 
could  not  be  indifferent.  It  hovered  over  us  like 
some  finer  beauty,  just  beyond  the  vision  of  sense, 
and  yet  as  real,  almost  as  tangible,  as  the  things  we 
touched  and  saw. 

Alone  as  we  were  upon  the  little  island,  we  felt 
the  diviner  world  of  which  that  tiny  bit  of  earth 
was  part ;  we  knew  the  higher  beauty  of  which  all 
that  visible  loveliness  was  but  a  sign  and  symbol. 
The  song  of  the  sea,  breathed  from  we  knew  not 
what  depths  of  space,  was  not  more  real  than  this 
melody,  haunting  the  island  and  dropping  from  the 


1 88  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

air  like  blossoms  from  a  ripening  tree.  Turn  where 
we  would,  this  music  went  with  us ;  it  mingled  with 
the  murmur  of  the  trees  ;  it  blended  with  the  limpid 
note  of  the  rivulet ;  it  melted  with  the  breeze  that 
swept  across  the  grassy  places.  All  day,  and  for 
many  another  day,  we  were  conscious  of  a  larger 
world  of  harmony  and  beauty  folding  in  our  little 
world  of  tree  and  soil ;  we  lived  in  it  as  freely  and 
made  it  ours  as  fully  as  the  bit  of  earth  beneath  our 
feet.  Through  all  our  talk  this  thread  of  melody 
was  run,  and  our  very  thoughts  were  set  to  this  un 
failing  music.  In  those  days  the  Poet  wrote  no 
verses  ;  what  need  of  verse  when  poetry  itself,  that 
deep  and  breathing  beauty  of  the  soul  of  things, 
filled  every  hour  and  overflowed  all  the  channels  of 
thought  and  sense  ! 

But  if  we  were  dumb  in  the  hearing  of  a  music 
beyond  our  mastery,  we  were  not  blind  to  the 
parable  conveyed  in  every  sound  and  sight ;  in 
those  delicious  days  and  nights  a  great  truth 
cleared  itself  forever  in  our  minds.  We  know 
henceforth  how  all  dream-worlds,  all  beautiful 
hopes  and  visions  and  ideals,  are  fashioned.  They 
are  not  of  human  making ;  they  but  make  visible 
things  which  already  exist  unseen  ;  they  but  make 
audible  sounds  which  are  already  vocal  unheard. 
He  who  dreams,  sleeps,  and  another  fills  the  cham 
ber  of  his  brain  with  moving  figures  ;  he  who  aspires, 
hopes  and  believes,  unlocks  the  door,  and  another 
world,  already  furnished  with  beauty,  lies  before 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  189 

him.  Our  ideals  are  God's  realities.  We  build 
the  new  worlds  of  our  knowledge  out  of  the  dust  of 
worlds  already  swinging  in  space ;  the  stately 
homes  of  our  imagination  rise  on  foundations  of 
the  common  earth.  Prospero's  island  was  made  of 
common  soil ;  flowers,  trees,  and  grass  grow  on  it 
as  they  grow  about  the  homes  of  work  and  care. 
The  same  sea  washes  its  shores  which  beats  upon 
the  coasts  of  ancient  continents ;  over  it  bends 
that  same  sky  which  enfolds  all  the  generations  of 
men.  Prospero's  island  is  no  mirage,  hovering 
unreal  and  evanescent  on  the  far  horizon ;  no  im 
palpable  phantom  of  reality  floating  like  some 
strayed  flower  on  the  lovely  sea  of  dreams.  It  is 
as  solid  as  the  earth,  as  real  as  the  soul  that  fash 
ioned  it.  No  miracle  was  wrought,  no  law  violated, 
in  its  making.  Beautiful,  true,  and  enduring,  it  lies 
upon  the  waters ;  a  haven  for  men  in  the  storms 
that  beat  upon  the  high  seas  of  this  troubled  life. 
That  which  is  strange  and  wonderful  about  it  is  the 
music  which  forever  hovers  about  it ;  that  which 
makes  it  enchanted  ground  is  the  sound  of  voices 
sweet  as  the  quietness  of  sleep,  the  vision  of  clouds 
ready  to  drop  unmeasured  riches  !  An  island  solid 
as  the  great  world  out  of  which  it  was  fashioned, 
but  sweet  with  heavenly  voices  and  sublime  with 
heavenly  visions — such  is  the  island  of  Prospero's 
enchantments. 

And  such  are  all  true  ideals,  dreams,  and  aspira 
tions.     They  have  their  roots  in  the  same  earth 


190  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

whence  the  commonest  weed  grows  ;  but  the  light 
and  life  of  the  heavens  are  theirs  also.  In  them 
the  visible  and  the  invisible  are  harmonized ;  in 
them  the  real  finds  its  completion  in  the  ideal- 
The  common  earth  is  common  only  to  those  who 
are  deaf  to  the  voices  and  blind  to  the  visions 
which  wait  on  it  and  make  its  flight  a  music  and 
its  path  a  light.  Out  of  these  common  things  the 
great  artists  build  the  homes  of  our  souls.  Rock- 
founded  are  they,  and  broad-based  on  our  mother 
earth  :  but  they  have  windows  skyward,  and  there, 
above  the  tumult  of  the  little  earth,  the  great  worlds 
sing. 


IV. 

You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilities  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe  things  certain. 

ONE  brilliant  morning,  the  sky  cloudless  and  the 
sea  singing  under  a  freshening  wind,  we  sat  under 
a  great  tree,  with  a  bit  of  soft  sward  before  us,  and 
talked  of  Prospero.  In  that  place  the  master  pres 
ence  was  always  with  us  ;  there  was  never  an  hour 
in  which  we  did  not  feel  the  spell  of  his  creative 
spirit.  We  were  always  secretly  hoping  that  we 
should  come  upon  him  in  some  secluded  place,  his 
staff  unbroken,  and  his  book  undrowned.  But  what 
need  had  we  of  sight  while  the  island  encompassed 
us  and  the  multitudinous  music  filled  the  air  ? 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  19I 

On  that  fair  morning  the  magical  beauty  of  the 
world  possessed  us,  and  our  talk,  blending  uncon 
sciously  with  the  music  of  the  invisible  choir,  was 
broken  by  long  pauses.  The  Poet  was  saying  that 
the  world  thought  of  Prospero  as  a  magician,  a 
wonder-worker,  whose  thought  borrowed  the  fleet- 
ness  of  Ariel,  whose  staff  unleashed  the  tempest 
and  sent  it  back  to  its  hiding-place  when  its  work 
was  done,  and  in  whose  book  were  written  all 
manner  of  charms  and  incantations.  This  was  the 
Prospero  whom  Caliban  knew,  and  this  is  the  Pros 
pero  whom  the  world  remembers.  "  For  myself," 
said  he,  "  I  often  try  to  forget  the  miracles,  so 
stained  and  defiled  seem  the  great  artists  by  this 
homage  which  is  only  another  form  of  materialism. 
The  search  for  signs  and  wonders  is  always  vulgar ; 
it  defiles  every  great  spirit  who  compromises  with 
it,  because  it  puts  the  miracle  in  place  of  the  truth. 
That  which  gives  a  wonder  its  only  dignity  and  sig 
nificance  is  the  spiritual  power  which  it  evidences 
and  the  spiritual  knowledge  which  it  conveys.  To 
the  greatest  of  teachers  this  hunger  for  miracles  was 
a  bitter  experience  ;  he  who  came  with  the  mystery 
of  the  heavenly  love  in  his  soul  must  have  felt  de 
filed  by  the  homage  rendered  as  to  a  necromancer, 
a  doer  of  strange  things.  The  curiosity  which 
draws  men  to  the  masters  of  the  arts  has  no  real 
honor  in  it ;  the  only  recognition  which  is  real  and 
lasting  is  that  which  springs  from  the  perception  of 
truth  and  beauty  disclosed  anew  in  some  noble 


I92  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

form.  Prospero  was  a  magician,  but  he  was  much 
more  and  much  greater  than  a  wonder-worker  ;  not 
Caliban,  but  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  and  Gonzalo, 
are  the  true  judges  of  his  power.  Prospero  was  the 
master  spirit  of  the  world  which  moved  about  him. 
He  alone  knew  its  secret  and  used  its  forces  ;  on 
him  alone  rested  the  government  of  this  marvelous 
realm.  His  command  had  stirred  the  seas  and  sent 
the  winds  abroad  which  brought  Milan  and  Naples 
within  his  hand  ;  at  his  bidding  the  isle  was  full  of 
sounds ;  Ariel  served  him  with  tireless  devotion  ; 
he  read  the  sweet  thought  that  flashed  from  Mir 
anda  to  Ferdinand  ;  he  unearthed  the  base  con 
spiracy  of  Caliban,  Trinculo,  and  Stephano  ;  he 
read  the  treacherous  hearts  of  Antonio  and  Sebas 
tian  ;  in  his  hand  all  these  threads  were  gathered, 
and  upon  all  these  lives  his  will  was  imposed.  In 
that  majestic  drama  of  human  character  and  action, 
powers  of  air  and  earth,  the  highest  and  the  lowest 
alike  serving,  it  is  a  lofty  soul  and  a  noble  mind 
possessed  by  a  great  purpose,  which  control  and  tri 
umph.  The  magical  arts  are  simply  the  means  by 
which  a  great  end  is  served  ;  when  the  work  is  ac 
complished,  the  staff  will  be  broken  and  the  book 
sunk  beneath  the  sea,  lower  than  any  sounding  of 
plummet." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rosalind  impulsively,  carrying  the 
thought  another  step  forward,  "  Prospero  deals  with 
natural,  substantial  things  for  great,  real  ends,  not 
with  magical  powers  for  fantastic  purposes.  When 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  193 

it  fails  in  his  way,  he  evokes  forces  so  unusual  that 
they  seem  supernatural  to  those  who  do  not 
understand  his  power,  but  the  end  which  lies  be 
fore  him  is  always  real,  enduring,  and  noble ; 
something  which  belongs  to  the  eternal  order  of 
things." 

"  For  that  matter,"  I  interrupted,  "  it  grows  more 
and  more  difficult  to  distinguish  between  the  forces 
and  the  achievements  that  we  have  thought  real  and 
possible,  and  those  which  have  seemed  only  dreams 
and  visions.  Men  are  doing  things  every  day  by 
mechanical  agencies  which  the  most  famous  of  the 
old  magicians  failed  to  accomplish.  The  visions  of 
great  minds  are  realities  discovered  a  little  in  ad 
vance  of  their  universal  recognition." 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  continued  the  Poet,  "  most 
men  hold  Prospero  to  be  a  mere  wonder-worker,  a 
magician  who  puts  his  arts  on  and  off  with  his 
robe  ;  they  do  not  know  that  he  stands  for  the 
greatest  force  in  the  world.  For  the  Imagination  is 
not  only  the  inspiring  leader  of  men  in  their  strange 
journey  through  life,  but  their  nearest,  most  con 
stant,  and  most  practical  helper  and  sustainer. 
That  our  souls  would  have  starved  without  the 
Imagination  we  are  all,  I  think,  agreed  ;  without 
Imagination  we  should  have  seen  and  remembered 
nothing  on  our  long  journey  but  the  path  at  our 
feet.  The  heavens  above  us,  the  great,  mysterious 
world  about  us,  would  have  meant  no  more  to  us 
than  to  the  birds  and  the  beasts  that  have  perished 


194"  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

without  thought  or  memory  of  the  beauty  which 
has  encompassed  them.  All  this  the  Imagination 
has  interpreted  for  us.  It  has  fashioned  life  for  us, 
and  the  dullest  mind  that  plods  and  counts  and 
dies  is  ministered  to  and  enriched  by  it.  It  does 
magical  things.  It  puts  on  its  robe  and  opens  its 
book,  and  straightway  the  heavens  rain  melody  and 
drop  riches  upon  us.  But  this  is  its  play.  In  these 
displays  of  its  art  it  hints  at  the  resources  at  its 
command,  at  the  marvels  it  will  yet  bring  to  pass. 
Meanwhile  it  has  made  the  earth  hospitable  for  us 
and  taught  men  how  to  live  above  the  brutes." 

The  Poet  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  he  had  been 
caught  in  the  act  of  preaching,  and  Rosalind  gave 
the  sermon  a  delightful  ending. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  if  love  would  be  possible 
without  the  Imagination  ?  For  the  heart  of  love  is 
the  perception  of  a  deep  and  genuine  fellowship  of 
the  soul,  and  the  end  of  love  is  the  happiness  which 
comes  through  ministry.  Could  we  understand  a 
human  soul  or  serve  it  if  the  Imagination  did  not 
aid  us  with  its  wonderful  light  ?  Is  it  not  the  Im 
agination  which  enables  me  to  put  myself  in  an 
other's  place,  and  so  to  sympathize  with  anoth 
er's  sorrow  and  share  another's  joy?  Could  a  man 
feel  the  sufferings  of  a  class  or  a  race  or  the  world 
if  the  Imagination  did  not  open  these  things  to 
him  ?  And  if  he  did  not  understand,  could  he 
serve?" 

No  one  answered  these  questions,  for  they  made 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  195 

us  aware  on  the  instant  how  dependent  are  all  the 
deep  and  beautiful  relations  of  life  on  this  wonder 
ful  faculty.  But  for  this  "  master  light  of  all  our 
seeing,"  how  small  a  circle  of  light  would  lie  about 
our  feet,  how  vast  a  darkness  would  engulf  the 
world  ! 


v. 

O  wonder  ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here  ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is  !     O  brave  new  world, 
That  has  such  people  in't ! 

WE  had  never  thought  of  the  island  in  the  old 
days  save  as  lashed  by  tempests  ;  but  now  the  suns 
rose  and  set,  dawn  wore  its  shining  veil  and  night 
its  crest  of  stars,  and  not  a  cloud  darkened  the  sky; 
we  seemed  to  be  in  the  heart  of  a  vast  and  change 
less  calm.  There  was  no  monotony  in  the 
unbroken  succession  of  the  days,  but  the  changes 
were  wrought  by  light,  not  by  darkness.  The  sing 
ing  of  the  sea,  never  rising  into  those  shrill  upper 
notes  which  bode  disaster,  nor  sinking  into  the  deep 
lower  tones  through  which  the  awful  thunder  of  the 
elements  breaks,  came  to  us  as  out  of  the  depths  of 
an  infinite  repose.  The  youth  of  an  untroubled 
world  was  in  it.  The  joy  of  effortless  activities 
breathed  through  it.  We  felt  that  we  were  once 
more  in  the  morning  of  the  world's  day,  and  hope 
gave  the  keynote  to  all  our  thought.  Life  is  di- 


196  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

vided  between  hope  and  memory  ;  when  memory 
holds  the  chief  place,  the  shadows  are  lengthening 
and  the  day  declining. 

It  was  one  of  the  pleasures  of  the  island  that 
we  were  alone  upon  it.  There  was  no  trace  of 
any  other  human  occupation,  although  we  never 
forgot  those  who  had  been  before  us  in  these 
enchanting  scenes.  One  morning,  when  we  had 
been  talking  about  the  delight  of  seclusion,  Rosa 
lind  said  that,  although  the  silence  and  repose 
were  really  medicinal,  people  had  never  seemed  so 
attractive  to  her  as  now  when  she  remembered 
them  under  the  spell  of  the  island.  It  seemed  to 
her,  as  she  recalled  them  now,  that  the  dull  people 
had  an  interest  of  their  own,  the  vulgar  people 
were  not  without  dignity,  nor  the  bad  people  with 
out  noble  qualities.  The  Poet,  who  had  evidently 
been  giving  himself  the  luxury  of  dreaming,  declared 
that  we  cannot  know  people  save  through  the 
Imagination,  and  that  lack  of  Imagination  is  at 
the  bottom  of  all  pessimism  in  philosophy,  religion, 
and  personal  experience.  A  fact  taken  by  itself 
and  detached  from  the  whole  of  which  it  is 
part  is  always  hard,  bare,  repellant ;  it  must  be 
seen  in  its  relations  if  one  would  perceive  its 
finer  and  inner  beauty  ;  and  it  is  the  Imagination 
alone  which  sees  things  as  a  whole.  The  theologi 
ans  who  have  stuck  to  what  they  call  logic  have 
spread  a  veil  of  sadness  over  the  world  which  the 
poets  must  dissipate.  "  I  do  not  mean,"  he  added, 


AN  UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  197 

"  that  there  are  not  somber  and  terrible  aspects  of 
life,  but  that  these  things  have  been  separated  from 
the  whole,  and  discerned  only  in  their  bare  and 
crushing  isolated  force.  The  real  significance  of 
things  lies  in  their  interpretation,  and  the  Imagina 
tion  is  the  only  interpreter." 

I  had  often  had  the  same  thought,  and  found 
infinite  consolation  in  it ;  indeed,  I  rested  in  it  so 
securely  that  I  would  trust  myself  with  far  more 
confidence  to  the  poets  than  to  the  logicians.  The 
guess  of  a  great  poetic  mind  has  as  solid  ground 
under  it  as  the  speculation  of  a  scientist ;  it  differs 
from  the  scientific  theory  only  in  that  it  is  an  in 
duction  from  a  greater  number  of  significant  facts. 
The  Imagination  follows  the  arc  until  it  "  comes 
full  circle";  observation  halts  and  waits  for  fur 
ther  sight. 

Rosalind  thought  it  very  beautiful  that  Miranda's 
first  glance  at  men  should  have  discovered  them  so 
fair  and  noble  ;  there  was  evil  enough  in  some  of 
them,  but  standing  beside  Prospero  Miranda  saw 
only  the  "  brave  new  world."  I  remembered  at 
that  moment  that  even  Caliban  discloses  to  the 
Imagination  the  germ  qf  a  human  development ; 
has  not  another  poet  written  his  later  story  and 
recorded  the  birth  of  his  soul  ?  It  was  character 
istic  of  Rosalind  that  she  should  see  the  people  in 
the  marvelous  drama  through  Miranda's  eyes,  and 
that  straightway  the  whole  world  of  men  and  women 
should  reveal  itself  to  her  in  a  new  light.  "  To  see 


ig8  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

the  good  in  people,"  she  said,  "  is  not  so  much  a 
matter  of  charity  as  of  justice.  Our  judgments  of 
others  fail  oftenest  through  lack  of  Imagination. 
We  fail  to  see  all  the  facts  ;  we  see  one  or  two  very 
clearly,  and  at  once  form  an  opinion.  To  see  the 
whole  range  of  a  human  character  involves  an  intel 
lectual  and  spiritual  quality  which  few  of  us  possess. 
There  is  so  little  justice  among  us  because  we  pos 
sess  so  little  intelligence.  I  ought  not  to  pronounce 
judgment  on  a  fellow-creature  until  I  know  all  that 
enters  into  his  life  ;  until  I  can  measure  all  the 
forces  of  temptation  and  resistance  ;  until  I  can 
give  full  weight  to  all  the  facts  in  the  case.  In 
other  words,  I  am  never  in  a  position  to  judge 
another." 

The  Poet  evidently  assented  to  this  statement, 
and  I  could  not  gainsay  it ;  is  there  not  the  very 
highest  authority  for  it  ?  The  time  will  come  when 
there  will  be  a  universal  surrender  of  that  authority 
which  we  have  been  usurping  all  these  centuries. 
We  shall  not  cease  to  recognize  the  weakness  and 
folly  of  men,  but  we  shall  cease  to  decide  the  exact 
measure  of  personal  responsibility.  That  is  a  func 
tion  for  which  we  were  never  qualified  ;  it  is  a  task 
which  belongs  to  infinite  wisdom.  The  Imagination 
helps  us  to  understand  others  because  it  reveals  the 
vast  compass  of  the  influences  that  converge  on  every 
human  soul  like  the  countless  rivulets  that  give  the 
river  its  volume  and  impetus.  To  look  at  men  and 
women  through  the  vision  of  the  Imagination  is  to 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  199 

see  a  very  different  race  than  that  which  meets  our 
common  sight.  To  this  larger  vision,  within  which 
the  past  supplements  the  present,  the  great  army  of 
men  and  women  moves  to  a  solemn  and  appealing 
music.  The  pathos  of  life  touches  them  with  an 
indescribable  dignity  ;  the  work  of  life  gives  them 
an  unspeakable  nobility.  Under  the  meanest  ex 
terior  there  are  one  knows  not  what  tragedies  of 
denied  hopes  and  unappeased  longings  ;  behind  the 
mask  of  evil  there  shines  one  knows  not  what 
struggling  virtue  overborne  by  impulses  that  flow 
from  the  past  like  irresistible  torrents.  Hidden 
under  all  manner  of  disguises — weakness,  poverty, 
ignorance,  vulgarity — there  waits  a  world  of  ideals 
never  realized  but  never  lost ;  the  fire  of  aspiration 
burns  in  a  thousand  thousand  souls  that  are  maimed 
and  broken,  bruised  and  baffled,  but  which  still  sur 
vive.  Is  not  this  the  unquenchable  spark  that  some 
day,  in  freer  air,  shall  break  into  white  flame  ?  It 
is  the  Imagination  only  that  discerns  in  a  thousand 
contradictions,  a  thousand  obscurities,  the  large  de 
sign  to  be  revealed  when  the  ring  of  the  hammer 
has  ceased,  the  dust  of  toil  been  laid,  the  scaffold 
ing  removed,  and  the  finished  structure  suddenly 
discloses  the  miracle  wrought  among  those  who 
were  blind. 


200  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

VI. 

I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

ROSALIND  was  deeply  interested  in  Prospero ; 
and  when  the  Poet  and  I  had  talked  long  and  ea 
gerly  about  him,  she  often  threw  into  the  current 
some  comment  or  suggestion  that  gave  us  quite 
another  and  clearer  view  of  his  genius  and  work. 
But  at  heart  Rosalind's  chief  interest  was  in  Mir 
anda  and  Ferdinand.  The  presence  of  Prospero 
had  given  the  island  a  solemn  and  far-reaching 
significance  in  the  geography  of  the  world  ;  Mir 
anda  and  Ferdinand  had  left  an  unfailing  and  be 
guiling  charm  about  the  place.  If  we  could  have 
known  the  point  where  these  two  fresh  and  un 
spoiled  natures  met,  I  am  confident  we  should  have 
stayed  there  by  common  but  unspoken  consent. 
After  all  our  discoveries  in  this  mysterious  world, 
youth  and  love  remain  the  first  and  sweetest  in  our 
thoughts  :  there  is  nothing  which  takes  their  place, 
nothing  which  imparts  their  glow,  nothing  which 
conveys  such  deep  and  beautiful  hints  of  the 
better  things  to  be.  Miranda  had  known  no 
companionship  but  her  father's,  no  world  but  the 
sea-encircled  island,  no  life  but  the  secluded  and 
eventless  existence  in  that  wave-swept  solitude. 
She  had  had  the  rare  good  fortune  to  ripen  under 
the  spell  of  pure,  high  thoughts,  and  so  near  to 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  20 1 

Nature  that  no  grosser  currents  of  influence  had 
borne  her  away  from  the  most  wholesome  and  con 
soling  of  all  companionships.  Ferdinand  came 
from  the  shows  of  royalty  and  small  falsities  of 
courtiers  ;  the  palace,  the  city,  the  crowded,  self- 
seeking,  hypocritical  world  had  encompassed  him 
from  youth,  robbed  him  of  privacy,  cheated  him  of 
that  repose  which  brings  a  man  to  a  knowledge  of 
himself,  and  despoils  him  of  those  sweet  and  tran- 
quilizing  memories  which  grow  out  of  a  quiet  child 
hood  as  the  wild  flowers  spring  along  the  edges  of 
the  woods. 

Coining,  one  from  the  stillness  of  a  solitary  island 
and  the  other  from  the  roar  and  rush  of  a  court  and 
a  city,  these  two  met,  and  there  flashed  from  one  to 
the  other  that  sudden  and  thrilling  intelligence 
which  on  the  instant  gives  life  a  new  interpreta 
tion  and  the  world  an  all-conquering  loveliness. 
Nowhere,  surely,  has  the  eternal  romance  found 
more  significant  setting  than  on  this  magical  island, 
about  which  sea  and  sky,  day  and  night,  weave  and 
weave  again  those  vanishing  webs  of  splendor  in 
which  daybreak  and  evening  stars  are  snared  ;  with 
such  music  throbbing  on  the  air  as  invisible  spirits 
make  when  the  command  of  the  master  is  on 
them  !  Here,  surely,  was  the  home  of  this  drama 
of  the  soul,  the  acting  of  which  on  the  troubled 
stage  of  life  is  a  perpetual  appeal  to  faith  and  hope 
and  joy  !  For  youth  and  love  are  shining  words  in 
the  vocabulary  of  the  Imagination — words  which 


202  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

contain  the  deepest  of  present  and  predict  the 
sweetest  of  future  happiness.  So  deeply  inter 
woven  is  the  real  significance  of  these  words  with 
the  Imagination  that,  separated  from  it,  they  lose 
all  their  magical  glow  and  beauty.  Youth  moves 
in  no  narrow  territory  ;  its  boundary  lines  fade  out 
into  infinity.  It  feels  no  iron  hand  of  limitation  ; 
it  discerns  no  impassable  wall  of  restriction.  Life 
stretches  away  before  and  about  it  limitless  as  space 
and  full  of  unseen  splendors  as  the  stars  that  crowd 
and  brighten  it.  The  great  wings  of  hope,  un- 
bruised  yet  by  any  beatings  of  the  later  tempests, 
shine  through  the  air,  lustrous  and  tireless,  as  if  all 
flights  were  possible.  And  far  off,  on  the  remote 
horizon  lines  where  sight  fails,  the  mirage  of  dreams 
dissolves  and  reappears  in  a  thousand  alluring 
forms. 

Love  knows  even  less  of  limitation  and  infirmity. 
Its  eyes,  sometimes  oblivious  of  the  things  most  ob 
vious,  pierce  the  remotest  future,  read  the  inner 
most  soul,  discern  the  last  and  highest  fruitions. 
The  seed  in  its  hand,  hard,  black,  unbroken,  is 
already  a  flower  to  its  thought ;  out  of  the  bare, 
stern  facts  of  the  present  its  magical  touch  brings 
one  knows  not  what  of  joy  and  loveliness.  And 
when  youth  and  love  are  one,  the  heavens  are  not 
bright  enough  for  their  thoughts,  nor  eternity  long 
enough  for  their  deeds.  Amid  the  shadows  of  life 
they  seem  to  have  caught  a  momentary  radiance 
from  beyond  the  clouds  ;  amid  sorrows  and  sins  and 


AN   UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND.  203 

all  manner  of  weariness  they  are  the  recurring 
vision  and  revelation  of  the  eternal  order.  All  the 
world  waits  on  them  and  rejoices  in  them  ;  and  the 
bitter  knowledge  of  what  lies  before  the  eager  feet, 
waiting  with  passionate  hope  on  the  threshold,  does 
not  lessen  the  perennial  interest  in  that  fair  picture; 
for  in  youth  and  love  are  realized  the  universal 
ideals  of  men.  Youth  and  love  are  the  mortal  syno 
nyms  of  immortality  ;  all  that  freshness  of  spirit, 
buoyancy  of  strength,  energy  of  hope,  boundless 
ness  of  joy,  completeness  and  glory  of  life,  imply, 
are  typified  in  these  two  things,  always  vanishing 
and  yet  always  reappearing  among  men.  Wearing 
the  beautiful  masks  of  youth  and  love,  the  gods 
continually  revisit  the  earth,  and  in  their  luminous 
presence  faith  forever  rebuilds  its  shattered  tem 
ples. 

That  which  makes  youth  and  love  so  precious  to 
us  is  the  play  they  give  to  the  Imagination  ;  indeed, 
the  better  part  of  them  both  is  compounded  of  Im 
agination.  The  horizons  recede  from  their  gaze 
because  the  second  sight  of  Imagination  is  theirs — 
that  prescience  which  pierces  the  mists  which  en 
fold  us,  and  discerns  the  vaster  world  through 
which  we  move  for  the  most  part  with  halting  feet 
and  blinded  eyes.  Youth  knows  that  it  was  born 
to  life  and  power  and  exhaustless  resources  ;  love 
knows  that  it  has  found  and  shall  forever  possess 
those  beautiful  ideals  which  are  the  passion  of  noble 
natures. 


204  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

Are  they  blind,  these  flower-crowned,  joy-seeking 
figures ;  or  are  we  blind  who  smile  through  tears  at 
their  illusions  ?  On  this  island  there  is  but  one 
answer  to  that  question ;  for  do  we  not  know  that 
they  only  who  believe  and  trust  discern  the  truth, 
and  that  to  faith  and  hope  alone  is  true  vision 
given  ?  "  As  yet  lingers  the  twelfth  hour  and  the 
darkness,  but  the  time  will  come  when  it  shall  be 
light,  and  man  will  awaken  from  his  lofty  dreams 
and  find — his  dreams  all  there,  and  that  nothing  is 
gone  save  his  sleep." 


THE   END. 


/§ 

UC  SOUTHERN  RFGiniUfli 


000025233    8 


STATE  NORMALSCHOOL. 

rXSAKaKLfis-r- 


